Ukrupnenie: The Long Winter
by lookitallthecolors
Summary: Russia is one of only four independent nations left on the entire planet. That is soon to change... A/N This fic is a prequel to the movie. Don't expect to see many familiar characters.
1. The Arrival

**END OF AN ERA**

_The world holds its' breath as Vladimir Putin, age 121, hovers on death's doorstep. This enigmatic figure has, without interruption, held the presidency of the Russian Federation since the controversial 2020 amendment to Russia's constitution._

_It is widely known that his current state of ill-health coincides with the upcoming elections, causing many to speculate on the fate of the similarly ailing United Russia coalition, not to mention the presidency…_

_- BnL World News Daily, 09/07/71_

_

* * *

_

"We have arrived, Your Excellency."

Chairman of the Government of the Russian Federation, Galia Ryzkhov, looked contemplatively through the window of the armored car. Then his bodyguards came boiling out of the automobile, hands on their pistols, as one of their number hurried over to his side of the car and opened the door.

"It's clear, sir," the man said, keeping a hand close to his weapon despite his words.

Galia gave a little smile, saying, "I should hope so. If the president's own home isn't safe, my good Andrick, then what is?"

Helping the Prime Minister out of his car, Galia's head of security said stiffly, "We're only doing our job, sir."

"Of course, of course. I did not mean to impugn you or your men's abilities. However…" Ryzkhov inclined his head. "I was thinking that I do not need my entire complement of guards accompanying me to see the President, yes?"

Andrick's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Ah. Certainly, sir. I will instruct the others to wait in the car while I accompany you, sir."

"I am afraid you misunderstand. I would prefer that no one come with me on my visit," Galia said.

"That isn't safe at all, sir," Andrick said, "I can promise you that I will try my utmost to be tactful. I have been with you here many times before."

The Prime Minister pursed his lips. "Mr. Chernoff, I insist that you stay. This meeting, unlike the others, must be completely discreet. I emphasize the word _discreet._"

"But sir, I-" He let the air out of his lungs with an audible _chuff_. "Fine, sir. I'll be out here, in the car."

Nodding his head in satisfaction, Galia went on towards the Novo-Ogaryovo, Putin's personal estate for more than seventy years.

After entering its' massive doors, he noticed a dozing soldier in a badly fitted uniform sitting on a stool next to the entrance. Galia let out a forceful cough, causing the guard to jerk upright with a muffled snort.

The soldier stared blearily at the person who woke him up, before his eyes widened in shock. "Chairman Ryzkhov!" He shot up from his chair and hastily saluted. "Sir! I-I was just resting my eyes, sir!"

"That's quite all right, young man. The hour is quite late, I am sure," Galia said kindly.

"Um, yes, sir. Right you are, sir," the soldier said, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Very well. I will see you later, then, Mr…"

"Markov. Private Markov, sir."

"Good evening, Private Markov. May your watch be untroubled." He turned to leave when he heard Markov shout behind him.

"Sir! Wait, sir!"

Facing the guard with a sigh, Galia said, "Yes?"

"I'm uh… I'm supposed to search you, sir. For weapons." He gulped. "I have to do this with everyone who comes in. Sorry, sir."

"That was very astute of you to remember, Private. I will be glad to let you search me."

"Thank you, sir." Markov went back over to his stool, retrieving an aging metal detector and an open-faced plastic box from underneath it. "Put all your metal things in here, please, sir."

Beginning with his battered cigar box, Ryzkhov complied. After doing so, the private waved the detector around the Prime Minister. It didn't make a noise. "Alright, sir. You're clear."

"I'm thrilled," Galia said drily. "If there isn't anything else…" His voice trailed off.

"Oh, no, sir. That's it. You can go up and see the president now, sir."

Giving a smile by way of response, he strode off to see his oldest, dearest friend.


	2. Old Friend

"I only wish a short visit with him. I don't want to trouble you too much," Galia said.

"Of course, Mr. Chairman. You can talk with him as much as you like." The nurse rapped the surface of the desk set up outside Putin's door. "I'll be right out here if you need me."

Galia gave a grave nod, before he entered the room. Inside was a familiar, but most intensely depressing sight.

On top of a cavernous bed, lay a wizened, elderly figure. Hooked up to him were all manner of IV drips, monitoring equipment, and other hospital hardware. This was stuff that provided not only the best medical care in Russia, but almost the entire world. No expense had been spared in order to preserve the president's life, even if it meant purchasing aid from the hated BnL.

Moving with a smoothness that showed this was an often repeated ritual, the Prime Minister sat down on the ancient overstuffed chair that was always next to the bed. He removed and lit a cigar from the tarnished case in his pocket. After getting comfortable, he started speaking.

"Well, here I am, my president. I apologize for not visiting you sooner. My work got the better for me, as it always does.

As I have mentioned before, BnL has been snuffling around, making all sorts of offers. The last time they came, they offered me my own personal island, in the Carribean.

I refused, of course. I said that I could never make such a decision. I pointed out that only you had the authority to perform that monumental a task.

"They laughed."

He rubbed his face, letting out a massive sigh. "To tell you the truth, old friend, I am scared. They have never been this insistent. This _demanding_. No matter what I said, they had a counterargument. I eventually had to throw them out when they wouldn't leave.

"I do not know what is happening anymore, my president. In the old days, we used to be a rising star. Under your firm hand, Russia was becoming a first-class power. We even started to rival the Americans, again.

"Now, all anyone talks about is BnL, BnL, BnL. The party is rotting from the inside. Even the country, _our _country, is dying. Many are talking openly of becoming a part of the 'Great Consolidation.' Pfagh!" His mouth twisted, as though he were sucking a lemon.

"There is this man… this _Grigori_. He is a member of United Russia, of course. As anyone who wants to amount to anything in Moskva is."

Galia took out his cigar case and begin fiddling with it tensely. "He is a bold man. Very bold. It is he, I am certain, who is the driving force behind this effort to join _Buy n Large_." He said the company name awkwardly, as though unfamiliar with its' pronunciation.

"He is an eloquent speaker, and has great _harizma_. People listen to him, unlike me. It is only a matter of time..." Galia's eyes unfocused, as though he were seeing into the future.

Coming back with a start, he shook himself, and said, "Speaking of time. It is running out, my president. With your current illness, there is no one to oppose Grigori in the party. No strong, forceful figure to balance him out. But on the other hand, none dare speak of replacing you while you yet live."

He stubbed out his cigar, and opened the case. Rather than getting another cigar, he took out a gleaming metal syringe, which contained a murky fluid. Galia regarded the needle mournfully. "The doctors say that you cannot hear me. I… am not so sure."

"So I will tell you this, old friend. What I am about to do is not for myself. It is not even for the party. It is for _rodina._ For the motherland."

He stabbed the syringe into one of the many IV bags, emptying it in seconds. "Farewell, my president. I will pray that a better place lies ahead of you."

* * *

Nurse Repin smiled at the Prime Minister as he exited the bedroom. "Already finished, sir?"

The older gentleman gave her a sad look. "I am afraid not. Our work, it is never complete."

_Poor man_. "I know, Mr. Chairman. You always feel bad after seeing your friend." She said encouragingly, "He can still get better, sir. It's never too late…"

Ryzkhov put up a hand. "No. You do not need to lie to me. It has been too late for Vladimir for a long, long time." Pause. "I can only hope that it is not the same for Russia." He walked off after giving this cryptic statement, leaving the confused nurse behind.

Three hours later, every alarm went off on her desk. The president had died of massive heart failure. Repin cried for a little while before composing herself for the coroner's arrival. It wasn't unexpected, after all was said and done. Putin had been sick for a long time.


	3. Foresight

**Tragedy on the Moscow Metro**

_So soon after the passing away of the Great Putin, the United Russia coalition was dealt yet another blow. Galia Ryzkhov, 48, died after being viciously gunned down while waiting at the Manezhnaya Ploshchad Metro station._

_It is understood by this reporter that the incident occurred after a heated argument between the former Prime Minister and Grigori Nekrasov, involving the possibility of a new direction for United Russia. Witnesses said that Mr. Ryzkhov stormed off in a rage, swearing that he was going to join the major opposition party, the CPRF._

_Mr. Ryzkhov's bodyguards attempted to follow him, but were delayed by large crowds of off-shift workers. It is thought by the police that the shooter or shooters then managed to catch him by surprise, as the ballistic trajectories showed that he was hit entirely in the back, while waiting for his train. He had been shot at close range 17 times with a semi-automatic pistol, possibly a Makarov PM._

_When asked for his opinion, Mr. Nekrasov said that "I am very sorry that an event like this had to sully the reputation of our fair city. While I want the culprits to be brought to justice, I also believe that Galia would have wished us to keep on working for the good of the party, and the nation." He also said that a funeral will occur on the twentieth, with the location to be announced._

_There are currently no known suspects, but the Moscow Police Department has stated that this attack does bear attributes of a Russian Mafia killing, and will be conducting inquiries._

_- Pravda, 10/15/7_

* * *

**A New Direction?**

_Grigori Nekrasov, head of the Democratic Unionists, has announced his candidacy for President of Russia. After the historic restructuring of the United Russia coalition under his auspices, the newly-formed Democratic Union Party sailed on to win massive victories in the 2071 parliamentary elections, ending with 44% of the vote. The Communist Party of the Russian Federation got 32% of the vote, and the far-right National Bolsheviks finished third with only 18%. The remainder was split by the other minor parties._

_Unless the other two major parties put up a big fight, it appears that victory is certain for the globalist Nekrasov. With the Democratic Union Party's broad base of support amongst the middle-class, others will find it difficult to challenge his lead._

_- BnL World News Daily, 01/03/72_

* * *

"We stand on the precipice of change. But simply because we are on the precipice, does that mean we should fear it? _Nyet_! We must not fear change, we must embrace change!

"Many years from now, your children and your children's children will ask you, what did you do? Did you stand with everyone else, to move the country forward? Did you act to have Russia join the world, join the rest of civilization?

"If you vote for me, you vote for change! You vote for a new beginning! With your vote, you will be able to look your child straight in the eyes and say, _Da_! I stood against tyranny, against poverty, against illiteracy, and against superstition. I stood against all of these things, but most of all, I stood up for you!"

Grigori basked in the waves of applause, feeling the drug-like adulation of his followers flow directly into him. As he left the podium, waving, his flunky Pavel hurried over to follow in his footsteps. "That was good, _hozyain_. Real good. Just like always." They got into their waiting car, as a cordon of security guards blocked off obsessed fans or possible assassins from getting too close.

When he finally got to his hotel room, Grigori collapsed bonelessly onto his bed. Pavel hovered around, asking him if he wanted anything to drink. He grunted by way of response.

After asking again in a louder voice, Pavel noticed that his superior's chest was rising steadily up and down. Realizing that Nekrasov must be asleep, he tiptoed quietly out of the room and closed the door.

* * *

The next morning, Grigori was eating his breakfast when Pavel, who was standing nearby, cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Grigori said, without looking up from his _blini_.

"Um, _hozyain_, I've been thinking…"

"What?"

Pavel scratched his nose absent-mindedly. "I've been kind of wondering to myself, you know? And I wanted to know what you're gonna do. After you're done with everything, I mean."

Grigori set his fork down with great deliberation. He said, "I'm afraid I have not planned anything specific, as of yet. Why?"

"Really?" Pavel's eyes bulged. "I've already thought that I'd buy a house in St. Petersburg. _And_ a dacha. I think I'd have some money left after that, too."

"I am not doing this for money, Pavel."

"You're kidding me!" he said incredulously. "But isn't that's what it's all about, _hozyain_? That's what BnL is paying us f-"

"Stop." Clouds had gathered on Grigori's face. "Do _not_ say their name. I'm still not sure if it is safe, here."

"Right, _hozyain_," Pavel said shamefacedly.

Grigori's expression softened a bit. "I'm sorry, Pavel. I think I'm still a little tense. That was a pretty big crowd, last night. Still having to get used to it, that is all."

Pavel nodded eagerly in agreement, and Grigori went back to eating his _blini_ as though nothing had happened. After he had finished breakfast, he suddenly said, "I will probably be running things, you know."

His flunky gave him a look of complete incomprehension.

"What you said earlier. I'll probably keep on running things. That's what the Yankees said would happen, anyhow."

"What, really, _hozyain_? But you don't have to! You could retire. Hell, you could even build a whole damned house out of gold bricks!"

"As I said earlier, Pavel, that's not the point. That's not why I am doing this."

Once again, total confusion.

Grigori decided that this would require an extensive discussion, and so he pushed back his chair, and got up. He walked back into the bedroom, which had been swept earlier and was certified to be safe, at least from any non-BnL equipment. Pavel followed him silently.

Nekrasov turned and looked the other man in the eyes. "How can I explain this…" He thought for a second. "You remember the old man? Ryzhkov?"

Pavel screwed his eyes up. "Oh, yeah. The guy you wha-" He caught himself.

"Yes, that guy. Anyway, do you remember what his policies were?"

"I dunno." He shrugged helplessly.

"Stop being an idiot, Pavel! I know you've got a brain in there, somewhere."

"Um… He wanted to keep things the same?"

"Perfect. Yes, he wanted to keep the status quo. That was his mission, his goal in life.

"The problem is that the status quo was untenable. Impossible to keep. Unemployment is rising, companies are shutting doors, and prices are always going up. Why? Because of BnL, of course. Nobody can compete with them exporting, exporting, exporting.

"And he just wanted to keep things the same. So what would his solution be? Bailouts, subsidies, tax cuts. Nothing that addressed the underlying problems.

"Galia Ryzkhov was wrong. And not just wrong, but dangerously wrong. If he got into power, Russia would disappear, forever. It would be the Time of Troubles all over again. But with nuclear weapons.

"What are the other choices? The Communists or the National Bolsheviks, of course. Almost interchangeable, the two of them, just on opposite sides of the political spectrum. But they aren't only just as bad, but worse.

"They'd institute massive nationalization of companies, military buildups, and start rattling their sabres.

"And Buy n Large would respond, naturally, with unstoppable force. We would have no chance of winning.

"So those were the two options. Stagnation, followed by a violent suicide. Or a very short, pointless war with the Yankees, where we'd kill off millions of our citizens.

"When I realized this, I knew there had to be a third way. And there was one. The Chinese took it."

Pavel realized something. "Oh. You mean BnL China?"

"_Da_. You do not hear much about 'Red' China, anymore. There were one of the first to participate in the Consolidation, after America disappeared.

"We have to take the same route. By peacefully joining BnL, we can avoid bloodshed and death. In addition, we will gain privileges we cannot have if they were forced to conquer us. It is the choice I made. The only right choice.

"So, do you understand now, Pavel?" Grigori looked expectantly at the other man.

"Yeah, I do." He grinned. "So you're basically saying that you believe all that crap you say in your speeches, _hozyain_?"

Nekrasov was about to strangle him when someone burst into the room. It was Nikolai, their top media watchdog. "Sir!"

"What is it?" Grigori asked, as he removed his hands from Pavel's trembling shoulders.

"I've got terrible news, sir! It's about the Commies and the Nazbols!" Nikolai said, panting.

Grigori snorted in derision. "What? Has Lenin returned from the dead to lead them? Or perhaps God Himself came down and gave His blessing?"

Grim-faced, Nikolai said, "Worse, sir! They've merged and formed the Nationalist Communist Party of Russia!"

As the other two men looked to their leader for direction, Grigori felt the world contract around himself. He knew then that they were, without a doubt, doomed.


	4. Cabal

**Democracy Denied**

_The neo-Stalinist NCPR has now seized both the legislative and executive branches of government in Russia. After the anti-democratic merger of the Russian Communist Party and the National Bolshevik party, their agreed upon leader Alexei Ilyin succeeded in being elected President of Russia, amid accusations of widespread voter fraud._

_His first action upon assuming the office was to name the notoriously anti-Semitic Dimah Kalinin as his Prime Minister. Mr. Kalinin was the former Chairman of the National Bolsheviks._

_Sources indicate that one of the major items on the agenda of the newly formed government is the annexation of Belarus and Ukraine, countries which have enjoyed their freedom for 82 years, since the fall of the Soviet Union. The NCPR has been stressing their common Slavic ties, claiming that they should "unite against the western imperialists."_

_President Henry Waternoose, Global CEO of Buy n Large, could not be reached for comment.  
_

_- BnL World News Daily, 03/04/72_

_

* * *

_

**Unemployment Falls to Record Lows**

_The Russian Bureau of Statistics has reported that unemployment has dropped to 4%, the lowest levels in over 10 years._

_The force behind this accomplishment is the newly-formed Russian Department of Labour, which has nationalized and revamped numerous industries across the country. In addition, with the expansion of the armed forces, many previously unemployed young men are being recruited into the Army, Navy, and Air Force. Not only are our male citizens gaining needful work, but the factories that support our patriotic troops are being expanded._

_The head of the Department of Labor states that all credit must be given to Tov. Ilyin, for his foresight in instituting these new policies that will help reform our nation's economy._

_-Pravda Rabočego, 08/20/72_

_

* * *

_

…_the question is not if, but when. Sooner or later, the capitalo-fascists will act. Whether by direct invasion, or through sponsoring of reactionary dissidents, they will seek to undermine the _rodina_. _

_They cannot stand to have their hegemony over this world threatened._

_- __Comrade President Alexei Ilyin, during a secret cabinet meeting on 12/16/72_

_

* * *

_

Major-General Igus Yashin was getting drunk, as he did every evening nowadays. There was little else to do. He knew he was a dead man walking.

Things had been pretty good, before the elections. He not only drew officers' pay, but he also got kickbacks and perks on top of it all. It was enough to live not just well, but _extremely_ well.

Intellectually, he had known that he was short-shrifting his men by paying for sub-standard equipment, and skimming off the rest, but why should he care? The likelihood of an actual shooting war occuring was infinitesimal.

He and his fellow officers had laughed when the Communists announced that that they were going to clean up the army. Every couple of years, the United Russians had claimed the same thing. Then a couple of palms were greased, and the whole issue quietly faded away.

Then it dawned on them that the NCPR were _serious_. The Reds actually resurrected the Soviet-era system of political commissars. And if you tried to bribe them, they'd _shoot_ you.

His friend and superior, Lieutenant General Vlasov, had tried to flee the country. He managed to get a ticket to North Korea, of all places.

It turned out that his trying to leave the country drew the attention of the Commissariat. Ex-General Vlasov was executed by firing squad the next day.

Without a chance of covering up his indiscretions, and no way of fleeing the political officer's watchful eyes, Igus decided to drink. If you were going to die, you may as well die happy.

Igus had succeeded in finishing one whole bottle of vodka, and was getting ready to start on the second one when two figures loomed over his table. Oh, _no._

"Would you mind if we sat here, General?"

He muttered his assent, getting a good look at them. One was tall, sallow looking fellow. The other was built like a barrel, with a stone face. Neither was in uniform. But what did that mean, after all? He'd heard of Commissars going 'plain-clothes.'

The men each pulled up a chair and sat down. They regarded him silently for a while. Igus decided to take the time he had been given to pour himself another very large drink.

One of them spoke up. "Do not be afraid, Mister- I mean _Tovarishch_ Yashin. We are not who you suspect we are."

Igus laughed grimly. "Really. I doubt that." He downed the glass in one gulp.

The tall man lifted up a long, bony finger. "It is the truth, General. We simply wish to make a proposition."

Mr. Barrel cleared his throat and said, "An offer of partnership."

"Why? What d'you need a washed up Major-General for?" Igus waved his glass drunkenly. "I'm not worth shit. As I'm sure you know, I'm in just a _bit_ of trouble."

A smile appeared on Mr. Sallow's face. At least, something that approximated a smile. It was more of a grimace. "Nonsense. You certainly have… skills. You also command your men, do you not?"

There's a loud snort. "'Til I lose my head."

"What if we could ensure that you would not 'lose your head,' General?" Mr. Barrel said.

Igus, even through the fog of strong vodka, began to suspect what this was all about. The sensible thing to do would be to tell them to go away. He shrugged. But what would be the point of that? He might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

"_Da_. I will hear you out."

If anything, Mr. Sallow's smile managed to grow wider. "Very good, General. I am glad you came to see our point of view."

They talked for the rest of the evening, and long into the night. A revolution takes a lot of planning, after all.


	5. Road to War

_BnL Department of Acquisition_

**February 4, 2073**

**President Hadeon Spivak**

**Secretariat of the President of Ukraine**

**11 Bankova Ul.**

**Kiev, Ukraine 01220**

Dear **Mr. Spivak**,

We here at Buy n Large welcome prospective franchisees. Unfortunately, despite the additional letter(s) you have sent us regarding the possible acquisition of **Ukraine,** we cannot expedite your application.

Buy n Large maintains a full staff of trained professionals, whose only job is to sort through the many franchisee applications we receive. Sending extra copies increases their workload, slowing down this process.

Please be patient. Once your application has been reviewed, we will immediately inform you if your request was accepted.

Thank you, **Mr. Spivak**, for your interest in joining the BnL family, and have a very nice day!

Sincerely,

Rachel Wilkes, Department Manager

BnL Department of Acquisition

320 Fifth Avenue, BNL Box 1158

New York, NY 10118

* * *

CEO of BnL Australasia, Sam Waters, grimaced as he took another sip of his tepid coffee. The Old Man was still droning on about the minor oil shortage. He had heard that those crazy Russians got a bug up their ass and started to refuse to sell crude to 'capitalist oppressors.' Since most of the friggin' world was either part of BnL, or a BnL franchisee, they had effectively embargoed everyone but Belarus, Ukraine, and North Korea. What a bunch of loons.

"According to internal reports, plastic goods production will have to be reduced by 17% in order to make up for the shortfall in resources. On the bright side, I believe that a reduction in supply will result in a spike in demand, as you should all know well, allowing us increase prices by…"

Blah, blah, blah. Sam surreptitiously looked at his watch. Aw, hell. Forty minutes to go.

He never really saw the point of these weekly meetings. They could telecommute just as easily, or even v-mail each other. But no! Mr. Waternoose thought he was _honoring_ them with face-to-face conferences. The sanctimonious old fart.

And then glory, glory, hallelujah! A frazzled looking man came in to whisper in the President's ear, stopping him in mid-monologue. Sam strained to listen, but couldn't understand what was being said. Something to do with Russia. Then again, what didn't?

Mr. Waternoose looked at the assembled executives, and said, "I'm afraid I will have to leave early. A rather expected event has occurred. Excuse me."

As the President turned to leave, Sam let out an audible sigh of relief. They could adjourn. And then Mr. Waternoose said over his shoulder, "Please continue without me. I will expect the minutes after you all are done."

Ever the brown-noser, the CEO of BnL North America hopped up and continued the stunning expose of the world of petroleum refining. Without missing a beat.

I hate you, Shelby Forthright.

* * *

"You are certain of this, Frank? No possibility of error?"

Frank Grimes, Waternoose's personal secretary, nodded. He said, "Yes, sir. We've triple-checked it with our satellites. They've already crossed the Dneiper River, sir. Belarus and Ukraine are all but occupied."

They were both in Waternoose's office, the penthouse at the top of BnL Headquarters. A massive window on one side offered a panoramic view of New York City. As the President gazed out of it, his back to his assistant, the distant people scurrying about almost resembled ants. Each day, it got harder to remind himself of their common humanity.

He came to a decision. "Very well," he said, "Make a general announcement. We are declaring war on the Russian Federation."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President?"

Waternoose furrowed his eyebrows. "You heard what I said. Declare war. They deliberately provoked us, as they are invading BnL franchisees. We have every right to defend our dependents."

"Sir, Belarus and Ukraine are not franchisees. They've never been."

"_What?"_

Frank cautiously pulled out his datapad, knowing that his superior disliked people who have to rely on them. "They each applied for franchisee status. Multiple times. The paperwork was still being processed when the Russians invaded."

"I explicitly remember ordering that their requests be expedited, Frank." Waternoose said, with a frown. "Why isn't that the case here?"

Continuing to tap his datapad with a stylus, Frank said, "According to the Acquisition Department, they got swamped with several hundred copies of the Franchisee Applications. Seems like the Ukrainians and Byelorussians were getting a bit panicky. Maybe with good reason. Anyway, the applications are 200 pages each, if you recall."

"And?"

"Well, Acquisitions made a new standing policy of throwing away all the excess incoming paperwork. Worked at first, but then someone get a little overzealous. They threw away the originals.

"By this time, the Presidents of Ukraine and Belarus had stopped sending in applications. It took a little handwaving before we got another copy each. We were _almost_ done with accepting it when the Russians invaded." He shrugged. "Really, I'm sorry, sir. But there's nothing we can do."

Waternoose went to his chair and sat down heavily. He said, "Frank, you're both right and wrong about that."

His assistant remained silent. It was obvious that Waternoose was working up to one of his archetypal lectures.

"You're right that we can't declare war on the Russians. Even with this blatant act of aggression, people wouldn't care. It's just one random independent nation attacking another. Remember the India-Pakistan war?"

Frank winced.

"Yes, I can see that you do. Despite the fact that millions died, our citizens were dead-set against choosing a side. Too costly, and what would be the point? They're just a bunch of funny looking people with strange names, killing each other for reasons that we don't really understand."

He slams his fist on his desk, making a satisfying bang. "However! You are wrong to say that there is _nothing_ that we can do. There are always other options."

Waternoose holds up two fingers. "First, contact our clandestine operatives in Russia. We need to step up the pressure. The former members of the DUP look to be our best bet for shaking things up.

"Second, freeze all extraneous R&D research. Put the extra funds gained from this into military production. If things escalate, I want to be prepared.

"It's time to see what we can salvage out of all this."


	6. Surprise

_I trust no one, not even myself._

_-__ Iosif V. Stalin_

_

* * *

_

Casey Adams was working in his office when the ancient PA system activated with a crackle.

"_Dr. Adams, please report to Mr. Ferguson."_

Grunting with irritation, he saved all his progress and got up to see his boss. Fourth-dimensional mathematics is a real nightmare to get back to after being interrupted, but duty called.

* * *

"You can't be serious!"

Mr. Ferguson spread his hands helplessly. "I wish I could help you out, Casey. I really do. But HQ is cutting funding for our division across the board. That means I have to decide which projects need the money most. Yours' was the main one that came up."

"But we've cut transmission time to ten days, Mr. Ferguson. Ten days! If you'd give me another month, I think I can increase efficiency even further by-"

"No." Casey's boss drummed his fingers on his desk. "Look, Dr. Adams, I'm already having trouble explaining why we need 100 times the normal power allocation of a standard research lab. And to be perfectly frank, I don't really understand if Project Ulm has any practical use."

"Practical use?!" He spluttered. "I'll let you know that if you actually _gave_ me get the funding I need, I can-"

"Dr. Adams. I've made my decision, and it's final. You're to fire all non-essential staff, and move all operations to Lab 12." Mr. Ferguson pointed his finger out the door. "Now get out of here before I lose my temper."

Casey managed to not show anything outwardly as he stormed out of the office. When he got into the elevator, he lost his self-control. He howled, first curse words, but then only a wordless shriek.

And the doors opened, but not at his floor. It was Jasmine, one of the people who worked in Accounting. They'd gone out a few times before.

He froze in mid-shout, as his face rapidly heated up. "Um. Hi."

"Hi, Casey." She gave him a sympathetic look. "Got word of the spending cuts?"

He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Yeah. Looks like I'm going to have to move down to Lab 12, with a skeleton crew."

"Oh. That really sucks." Jasmine chewed her lip. "Do you want to call off our date, tonight?"

"Mph." He watched the floor numbers count down. "I guess. I need to contact my employees to let them know I'm letting most of them go, and get movers to crate all the equipment."

"Okay." There was a loud _ding_. "Looks like this is my floor. Bye, Casey."

"See you later, Jaz."

* * *

Several days later, Casey found himself chain-smoking cigarettes in the company café. He was trying to get some calculations done on his datapad, but it was hard to concentrate when he wasn't in a proper office.

Unfortunately, all his usual equipment was still packed, waiting for workmen to uncrate them. The arseheads said they wouldn't be able to get around to it for a week. There was apparently a backlog of other move orders.

He was glowering at the holoscreen when he heard someone clear their throat. It was Jasmine.

"Hey. Still sulking about the whole funding thing?" She leaned over to give him a good-natured poke.

Blocking the incoming finger with his hand, Casey said, "You'd be cranky too, if you had to do all your work in a coffee shop, Jaz. What's up?"

"Well… I've heard about your whole delay in getting settled into your new place…"

Casey snorted. "Yeah. Seems that everyone else is getting moved out at the same time as me. Management wants the space we're making for a bunch of military stuff, I heard."

"I know, I saw the budget reports. The Air Force is getting a bunch of contracts, with the Russians acting up. Anyway…" Jasmine fished around for something in her purse. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she held out two strips of paper.

Leaning forward, Casey asked, "What're those?"

"Oh, nothing." She gave a sharklike grin. "Just some tickets entitling the holders to a week-long stay at BnL World, Florida. That's all."

"But those things are impossible to get!" His eyes bulged. "There's a three year wait just to get a reservation!"

Jasmine said, "Not for the amazing Ms. Beauchamp. I thought we could take a vacation for a while. I've got some comp time, and you're just sitting around waiting for your things to get unpacked. What do you say?"

"BnL World, here we come!" Casey took one of the tickets from her hands. "Do I need to sign in blood?"

* * *

Dr. Adams was making a last-minute check of his house when he heard the honking from outside. He picked up his suitcase, and ran out.

Jaz was waiting in her sporty yellow coupe. She waved him over.

While he got into the car, she said casually, "Are you sure you didn't forget anything? You did call in to say you'd be taking time off, right?"

"Yes, mother." Casey rolled his eyes.

"Alright, off we go!" She gunned the engine, causing the tires to screech. They zoomed off, Casey shouting good-naturedly all the while.

* * *

After thirty minutes, he started to get concerned. "Jaz, are we lost?"

"Nope."

"Really? 'Cause I'm sure this is _not_ the way to the airport."

"Nope," she said again, giving her trademark infuriating smile.

"Fine. Can you tell me where we _are_ going, then?"

"It's a surprise."

"You know, Jaz, sometimes I really, really hate you."

Grin. "Yep."

They finally pulled up in front of an old, abandoned warehouse. Jasmine got out of the car, while Casey followed her uncertainly. "Jaz… I really don't like this. Let's go back to the airport."

"Casey, are you chicken? Come on, you need a little excitement in life." She strode confidently into the darkened building.

He stood still for a moment, rife with indecision. Then he shook himself, and ran in after her. After all, what's the worst that could be in there? Spiders?

It was pitch black. "Jaz? Where are you?" Casey blinked his eyes, trying to see in the darkness. "Hello?"

Beginning to get really mad, he said, "This isn't really that funny, you kn-"

_Thump._


	7. Meetings

…_we have gathered here in remembrance of a fateful day. The day when the heroic peasants and factory workers of the dying Russian Empire threw off the yoke of imperialism and tyranny._

_The day of the October Revolution._

_The forces of monarchism, feudalism and capitalism were not destroyed then, but they were humbled. They retreated to their mansions and castles, at home and abroad, and planned their retribution. It was swift, it was terrible. And it failed._

_Despite support from the other dying empires, the White Army and the forces of reaction they fought for were consigned to the dustbin of history._

_We must remember those days, for our actions now echo those of the past. The sleeping Red Banner of Communism has risen yet again. The oppressed proletariat of Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus has joined together, to reforge the glorious Union of Soviet Socialist Republics!_

_But do not become complacent, comrades. As I have said, history is repeating itself. Once again, the specter of western imperialism and reactionary thought are marshaling their forces, to extinguish the sole light we provide to the world._

_They fear the Soviet Union, as they should. They know that their end is nigh._

-_ Excerpt from speech made by Comrade President Alexei Ilyin, on 10/25/73_

_

* * *

_

"Wake up."

Casey groaned. He felt someone gently slap him across the face.

"Wake up, Adams. I know I didn't hit you hard enough to hurt you."

He opened his eyes, and blearily looked around. Or tried to, as his movement was restricted. He was strapped onto a chair that looked like it came from the Middle Ages, in a fairly nondescript room. Lots of grey concrete, with a big metal door in the wall. There was a grate set in the floor. He tried not to think about the fluids that it was built to collect.

Jasmine was in front of him, tapping her foot impatiently. She was holding a tin cup filled with water in her hand.

"Good. You're awake. Drink this, please."

Casey stared at her, trying to figure out what was going on. "Jasmine? Where the hell am I?"

She ignored his question. "Casey. Don't make this harder than it has to be. Now, drink." She lifted the cup to his mouth.

"What? No!" He moved his head, making her spill some of the water. "Jaz, I think I deserve an answer, here!"

Jasmine set the cup on one of the arms of his chair with an audible _clunk_. "I really can't say, Casey. Look, I know you're really thirsty, so can we get on with this, please?"

"Well, then," he said stubbornly, "I just won't drink that water until you tell me what's going on. So there."

She frowned, saying, "You're acting like a child. In any case, I already told you, I can't say. They might overhear me." Picking up the cup again, she tried to force the water past his lips.

Casey sat with his mouth closed tightly. Most of it ended up on his clothes.

"Jesus Christ, Casey Adams. Here I am, trying to do you a good turn, and what do you do? You act like a _govniuk_." She waved her hands in the air, splashing even more water. Casey idly noticed that an accent had crept into her voice.

"Where do you think you are, _dolboeb_, the Ritz? It should only take half a brain to recognize the fact that you're not in the position to call up a- a _servant_ for a BnL Coke if you decide you feel a bit thirsty.

"So, _perestan' bit dabayobom!_ Drink up your water, _da_? The _hozyain_ will be here any second now, and if he sees-" She caught herself. "Crap."

Despite realizing that he was quite probably going to die, Casey couldn't keep a giant grin off his face. "So, you're a Russian. Never knew that."

"Dr. Adams." Jasmine narrowed her eyes. "My boss is going to be here in five minutes. If you do not drink this, I will throw it away. And he is not the sort of person to offer refreshments. Understand?"

"Okay, okay," he said with a laugh. After he drank down the reduced contents of the cup, she efficiently made it disappear. Casey was about to ask her how she did that, when the door slammed open. He blinked, trying to resolve the figure silhouetted in the light.

"Ah! I see that the tender ministrations of my good agent, Cryptic, has resulted in the awakening of our esteemed guest. Tell me, Dr. Adams, what do you think of our hospitality?"


	8. Pain

…_the arrest rates due to holding a restricted firearm in the BnL Middle East region have increased by 89%. The majority of the weapons found appear to be AKM model assault rifles, with maker's marks confirming that they were produced in Russia (now the Soviet Union)._

_Violence has already started to increase in the area formerly known as Iran and on the Arabian Peninsula, and as more illegal guns are smuggled into extremists' hands, the chance of an armed rebellion breaking out approaches unity by 2075._

_If we do not take decisive short-term action, such as stationing more soldiers in the region, we may have a major crisis on our hands._

_- Special Report on Crime in the Middle East, commissioned on 9/14/73_

_

* * *

_

_Perhaps we should give them a taste of their own medicine._

_- President Waternoose, after reading the previous report_

_

* * *

_

Jasmine Beauchamp, or 'Cryptic,' came rigidly to attention. "Comrade Colonel."

The man waved her down. "At ease, Cryptic. We do not need such formality with our Yankee 'friend' present." He looked down at Casey Adams, an unspoken question evident. The man was wet from the copious amounts of water that had been spilled.

"He was reluctant to wake up, sir. I was forced to douse him," she said by way of explanation. When he seemed to accept this, she cautiously saluted and said, "If you will excuse me, sir, I have other duties…"

"_Nyet._" Still watching his damp prisoner, he said off-handedly, "You have yet to see a proper interrogation, Cryptic. How can you hope to advance without properly learning all the skills necessary to be an agent?"

"Yes, Comrade Colonel." She moved off to the side of the chair, expressionless.

"Very good." He gave an affable smile to Casey. "Ah. Pardon me if I do not shake, but…" The Commissar gestured at the restraints.

Casey said nothing.

"A silent one, I see? Well, perhaps we need a proper introduction." He clasped his hands behind his back. "You I already know of. The amazing Dr. Casey Edward Adams, assigned to the ever-so-mysterious Project Ulm."

The prisoner shrugged.

"No need to be modest, I know of you quite well. In no small part due to the hard work put in by my lovely agent Cryptic." Ignoring her wince, he continued. "You may refer to me as 'Yarrick.' My true name is not important."

Casey raised an eyebrow. "I don't like that name so much. Can I call you asshole, instead?"

There was a long silence, as Yarrick turned white with cold fury. He bent down to put his face level with Casey's, then let out a very loud, insincere belly laugh. "I suppose I have to revise my assessment of you, Mr. Comedian. I somehow doubt that you are the quiet type I 'pegged' you for. No matter."

Yarrick straightened, and began to steadily pace around the chair. "Enough of pleasantries, Joker Man. You have information that I, or rather my superiors, very _badly_ require. Specifically on 'Project Ulm.' If you give it to me without a fuss, I can assure you that I will release you unharmed.

"I do not need to remind you that no one is coming to rescue you. As far as your superiors are concerned, you are on a very well deserved vacation. Your only hope of survival is to rely on the miniscule amount of 'goodwill' I _might_ offer you. So, Dr. Adams, what will it be?"

Casey tried to spit on his captor, but the gob of saliva sailed past the Colonel and landed harmlessly on the floor. "Fuck you."

The other man shook his head sadly. "Tut, tut, Mr. Comedian. I thought you had better sense than that. I suppose we will have to take this the hard way." He said to Cryptic, "Please retrieve my tools."

Trying not to show how scared he really was, Casey said, "So, is this the part where you tell me that you have ways of making me talk?"

"_Nyet_, my Yankee friend." Cryptic came back in, hauling a large, heavy suitcase. Yarrick took it from her hands and opened it, revealing an array of shining implements of torture.

"This is the part where I hurt you until you cry like a tiny girl."

* * *

Half an hour later, Casey was having the worst time of his life. He was tempted to think he was experiencing the most awful torture in the world, but he was too rational for that. That didn't make it any easier to endure, though. "You... I hate you. So much." he croaked, tears streaming down his face.

Yarrick chuckled. "My, Mr. Comedian. Is that the best you can come up with, now? At the beginning of this session, you managed to come up with some quite amusing pieces of invective. Clamp, please, Cryptic." Despite looking a little green, she managed to wordlessly hand it to him.

Examining the patchwork quilt of pain he was weaving on his prisoner's body, he clucked his tongue. "You know, Casey, I am quite saddened by the fact that you do not seem to appreciate my talents. It takes quite a bit of skill to inflict extensive amounts of suffering on someone, without leaving a single mark." Appearing to find what he was looking for, he attached the clamp and gave it a vicious twist.

Casey screamed. It was then that he decided he had enough. Sobbing, he said, "Yarrick. You win. I'll tell you what you want."

The Colonel paused in his work. "Are you sure, Dr. Adams? We have barely gotten to know one another." He picked up a large, sinister looking drill. "Why, once it took me three weeks to extract a confession from… a certain political dissident. I'm sure you could last a few hours more."

"No, I'm, uh, quite sure I couldn't. Really." Casey shrunk back in his chair, as far away as he could get from the drill. He glanced desperately to Cryptic for help, but she only stood there, looking very unhappy with the whole proceedings. "I'll-I'll give you everything. All the details! All I ask is that you stop hurting me."

Still holding the tool in his hand, Yarrick said, "Try that again, with more feeling. I'm not getting the _right_ kind of sincerity I need."

"Please! I beg you! Please! I'll give it all up. I swear I won't hold anything back! Just- don't!"

Yarrick carefully put the drill back in the suitcase, causing Casey to sag in relief. "Excellent. Now, speak. What is Project Ulm?"

Taking a long, shuddering breath, Dr. Adams complied.

* * *

After a scant five minutes of explanation, Colonel Yarrick cut him off. "_Da_. Good. All the things you say, they check out with my other reports. You have not lied to me. So far."

"Wait… so, we're- we're done?" Casey asked haltingly.

"Not yet." Yarrick rubbed his chin. "There is one last thing I need. I did not bring you here only to confirm other reports. I have, ah, 'flunkies' to do that. I want the science behind this, how it all works. The mathematics."

"Sure! Give me my datapad and I can get you them. My preliminary calculations, the multi-dimensional coordinates, the whole nine yards. Okay?" He hoped he didn't sound too desperate.

Yarrick's face shut down. "No datapad."

"Excuse me?"

"No datapad," he repeated. "It may contain tracking devices. We will _never_ bring one of those... _things_ in."

_Weird._ Casey then remembered something. "But I had mine on me when I… came here."

Yarrick shook his head. "No, you did not. Cryptic destroyed the device before taking you here, under my orders."

"How else am I supposed to give you the information?"

Looking at Casey as though he were an idiot, the Colonel said, "You remember it, then write it down, of course. On paper. Don't you Yankees have paper?"

"But- but I can't remember _everything_," Casey wailed.

Yarrick sighed. He was about to beat some sense into the man when Cryptic coughed, getting his attention. "What?"

"Sir," she said, as Casey shrieked nonsense in the background, "Dr. Adams might be serious about his need for the datapad. The work he was doing was very complex. I doubt that he could remember it all on his o-"

"_Nyet_, Cryptic. I do not agree," he said. "What I think we have here is someone who is trying to play the game of the silly bugger." He began to reach back into the bag. "Perhaps a little incentive…"

Casey swallowed his hysterical crying with a hiccup. He hurriedly said, "Fine, fine! I'll write it all down, immediately. Will that make you happy?" He thought to himself, _And more importantly, not hurt me?_

Cryptic produced a pad of paper and a pen from wherever she got the cup before, and placed it on Casey's lap. Afterward, Yarrick reached down and loosened the restraints, allowing enough freedom to allow the man to write. He worked as quickly as he could, cursing whenever the pen blotted or skipped. Finally, it was done.

Yarrick picked up the pad and scrutinized it. He grunted. "This does not make any sense to me. But I would not expect it to. I am no scientist, I must admit."

He closed the briefcase with a _snick_, and got up to leave. He said, "Cryptic, stay here. I will be back shortly, after consulting with headquarters."

Cryptic saluted as he left. "_Da_, Comrade Colonel."

Then it was just the two of them, alone.


	9. The Offer

Moscow Police Department

GENERAL SURVEILLANCE REPORT OF GRIGORI NEKRASOV, #115

PG. 15/17

Type: PHONE TRANSCRIPT

Recorded: 10/26/73

Time: 0931-0932

Location: 40 SMOLENSKAYA UL. (SUBJECT'S HOME)

Officer: SRGT S. BOTKIN

Authorized: CPTN G. FROLOV

TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS:

NEKRASOV: Hello? Is this Popov's Pastries? I'd like to make an order.

UNKNOWN MAN: Yes, this is Popov. How may I help you?

NEKRASOV: I am planning a large party, for some close friends of mine. I need four cakes, please. Each must have a name stenciled on it. Kira, Mikhail, Leonid, and Moisey. I do not care about the flavors, but Moisey's cake should be extremely large. He is a big fellow, and could defeat almost any cake.

UNKOWN MAN: Could you repeat the names for me, sir? I want to make sure I wrote them down correctly.

NEKRASOV: Kira, Mikhail, Leonid, and Moisey.

UNKOWN MAN: Alright. When would you like them finished?

NEKRASOV: I would like them baked as soon as you possibly can. But with one condition; you must make sure they are done at the _same_ time. I do not want one too hot, and the others stone cold.

UNKOWN MAN: Yes, that is always unpleasant. The cakes should be done by this evening. Goodbye.

NEKROSOV: Thank you. Goodbye.

TRANSCRIPT ENDS.

_A note has been scrawled in the margins:_

**Captain -**

**Sir**, **we have searched the directories for **_**Popov's Pastries**_**, but no such place exists. The number has been traced to a pay phone near the Red Square. As there weren't any witnesses, we cannot determine who has used it. **

**Perhaps Nekrasov's message was coded? I request that we send this transcript to the Cryptography division ASAP. Even though the likelihood of us discerning what it meant is low, at least it's a lead.**

**Sergeant Sergei Botkin**

**

* * *

**

_Our greatest mistake was our failure to execute him._

_- Comrade President Alexei Ilyin, on Grigori Nekrasov_

_

* * *

_

Casey had been playing a game for the past hour. He was counting the number of times that Cryptic would try not to look at him, and fail. Each time her gaze slid over him, she'd wince.

He was up to 127 when she snapped at him. "Would you stop doing that!"

"Excuse me?"

"You just keep sitting there! With your googly, sad eyes… like a kicked puppy!"

"Hey! My eyes aren't googly." He closed one and touched it gingerly to make sure. Then he pointed out, "Anyway, you're the one who keeps looking at me. _And_ twitching."

Cryptic snorted. "I do not twitch."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"You do."

"I do not."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Argh!" She clenched her fists, and stalked over to his chair. _Uh-oh._

Once she'd gotten close, she opened a hand. Cryptic smacked him, hard. "You, Doctor Casey John Adams, are the most boorish, ugly, lazy, and idiotic Yankee I have met in my entire life. You are the only person I've ever known that would react to kidnapping and imprisonment with such- such-" She stopped, clearly groping for a word.

"Good humor?"

"Yes. No!" She gave him a foul look. "You are not even taking me seriously!"

"Why not? After all, it's just like old times. You, me, a whole bucketful of mutual irritation and rage." He grinned.

"See, Casey? Still playing the fool." Pause. "You should be acting like a _normal_ person. One who had been…" She trailed off.

"Tortured," he said, finishing her sentence again. Casey thought for a second. "Yeah. I guess it's some kind of coping mechanism."

"Yes." Cryptic sighed. Chewing her lip, she said, "I'm sorry Casey, for doing this to you. But I had no choice. It's my job." She added, apparently to convince herself as much as him, "I had no idea of all the things he did to the people I brought in."

"Of course. I understand perfectly."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

"After all, you couldn't _possibly_ have guessed what went on down here," he said sarcastically. "For all you knew, he was giving his prisoners cake and full-body massages."

Cryptic was about to answer with an angry retort when the door slammed open. Colonel Yarrick burst in, clearly in a monstrous rage.

"You good for nothing fascist lapdog!" Yarrick's face was turning purple, and he was waving the papers clutched in his hand around.

"I contacted my superiors, who got a real scientist to look at them." He inhaled deeply. "This is all nonsense. Gibberish! He could make nothing of them!"

Suddenly, Yarrick became preternaturally calm. With one swift motion, he ripped the notes he was holding in half. "You thought you could play a game, my trickster friend. I suppose you had no idea how serious this is."

Advancing on Casey, he said, "You cannot possibly comprehend how _much_ I will enjoy doing this."

"Comrade Colonel. Sir!"

Cryptic's superior whirled around to face her, causing her to flinch. "WHAT?"

"Sir, if you please…" She said something quickly in Russian, her body tensed as if for a fight.

Yarrick growled a few words back at her, dismissively. He was about to turn back to the terrified Dr. Adams, when Cryptic said another rapid-fire sentence. Yarrick froze, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Certain that she had gotten his point in, she added, "_Požalujsta pover´te mne, sèr._"

"_Da._" Cryptic relaxed back into her normal stance, which Yarrick didn't seem to notice. Giving a false smile, he said to Casey, "Well, my Yankee friend, it appears that my agent here has an idea. She _claims_ that you would be able retrieve the actual notes, along with some of your experimental machinery. Cryptic has also magnanimously offered to accompany you on this mission."

Yarrick leaned forward in a blur, gripping Casey's throat with his massive hands. While Casey gurgled, the Colonel continued to speak. "I would advise you to seize this opportunity. If you should bring me these items, I will forgive you for your earlier transgressions. What do you say to this, Joker Man?"

Casey laboriously managed to dip his head in assent. His captor released the stranglehold, allowing him to breath.

"I am glad you came to see reason," Yarrick said. "However. Despite Cryptic's mysterious trust in your abilities, I think you are a dirty, lying rat. So I will give you this warning."

Placing a massive hand on Cryptic, he continued. "If you try any 'funny business,' she will know. Then she will tell me. And then I will kill you. Bit by bit." Yarrick nodded towards the other agent. "_Da, tovarishch?_"

"_Da,_" she replied slowly.


	10. Betrayal

_Death solves all problems – no man, no problem._

_- Iosif V. Stalin_

_

* * *

_

The car was right where they had left it: parked right in front of the old warehouse (or rather, secret NKVD base).

As they got in, Casey asked diffidently, "So, what should I call you?"

She stopped in the middle of starting up the car. "What?"

"You know, what name you want to be called. Jaz? Cryptic? Ms. Russian Lady? Somehow, I doubt you'll tell me your real name…"

There was a moment of thought. "Call me Jasmine, out in public. That's as good as anything else." She shrugged. "In addition, it's easy to remember. That's always a plus, in espionage." She turned the key, causing the engine to grumble as it warmed up.

"Where are we going?"

Jasmine said with a sigh, "To your apartment, of course. You need to get cleaned up, since you currently resemble a scarecrow." She wrinkled her nose. "And smell like a latrine. What, did you think we'd walk directly into Lab 12? You'd stand out like a sore thumb. Worse, people would _vomit_ when they got too close to you."

"Oh. Yeah, I didn't realize that." he said, embarrassed.

"You, Dr. Adams, are a moron." As his face heated up, she pulled the car out of the parking lot.

They sat in silence for a while, before Casey piped up again. "I was wondering…" he began.

"Christ, Casey, can't you stay quiet for one minute? In case you didn't notice, I'm sort of trying to plan our infiltraton job here." His jaw snapped shut. Seeing his crestfallen expression, she relented. "Fine, what?"

He cleared his throat. "I was wondering how you got your job, Jaz. As a spy?"

"Excuse me? I don't understand," she said, confused.

Casey said, "Well, I mean, how'd you decide to become a spy? Like, was your dad a famous secret agent, or something?" He scratched his nose. "Was it some kind of childhood dream?"

"Ah. I see." Jasmine stared down the road, off into space. "I was chosen."

"You mean you chose to be spy?"

"No." Her eyes were still unfocused. "I was _chosen_." She said this word with clipped precision.

It was Casey's turn to be confused. "What d'you mean?"

"It was… a long time ago. I had not, no parents, very poor. Lived in orphanage." Her voice was getting very thick, the accent almost impossible to understand.

"Then they came. Offered… much. Asked only for one thing. Service, to country."

Casey saw tears glistening in her eyes. He desperately tried to figure out what to do, making several false starts to pat her shoulder. Jasmine then solved his problem by snapping back into the present. She quickly wiped her face, and glared at him challengingly, as though daring him to say something.

The rest of the ride was uneventful.

* * *

After he got a shower and changed, Casey came out to find Jasmine at his dining room table, writing. On paper, of all things. She must have brought it up from the secret base. "What's up?" he asked.

"Hm." Jasmine put down the pen she was holding. "This is simpler then I could ever have hoped for." She gestured at some notes she had made. "While you were engaged, I was going through your documents."

"Hey! Those are private!"

Ignoring his unhappy outburst, she continued on unperturbed. "It appears that you have fired _all_ your regular employees. And the temps should be off for the day, due to their restricted schedule."

Tapping a map she had printed out, she said, "All we need to do is get one of my 'friends' to loan a pick-up truck. We'll go to Lab 12, load up whatever we need, and leave. If anyone asks, we can just say Mr. Anderson is moving us to another lab."

"That's it?" he said incredulously.

"Yes. That's it." She recited as if from memory, "Unless you are certain that you hold all the cards, the simplest of plans is the one that is the most likely to succeed." Jasmine smiled. "Remember that, Casey, it will keep you in good stead."

* * *

After getting the pick-up, they drove on to Lab 12. It was deserted, as Cryptic had stated. Or at least, so they thought.

While in the midst of loading some delicate computer equipment in the back of the car, Casey heard someone shouting.

"Hey, both of you! Stop right there!"

_Crap_. He jumped nervously, causing the crate to slip from his hands. Right onto Jasmine's fingers.

She bit back a curse, and eyed him from behind narrow eyes. Casey knew he was going to pay for that later. But there were more important things to worry about. He took a deep breath, and tried to appear innocent.

They then hopped off the truck bed, coming face to face with the person who had accosted them.

The figure ran up, puffing. It quickly became apparent that he wasn't any random worker, but a security guard. A really obese one, but a security guard nonetheless. Double _crap_.

Jasmine put a hand in her jacket pocket, where Casey knew she kept a gun. Things were going to get bloody.

Then something unexpected happened.

"Dr. Adams! Remember me?" He stuck out his hand.

Casey shook the proffered hand, furiously thinking. The guy looked familiar. "Wait a minute." He squinted. "Bob? I thought I, um, ya know…"

Bob let out a wheezing bark of laughter. "Fired me? Funny how that worked out. Right after you let me go, the boss put out an ad asking for security purs-on-el."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yep." Bob grinned, exposing a mouthful of yellowing teeth. His constant drinking of coffee had evidently taken its' toll. "Seems that the Old Man, Mr. Waternoose hisself, has got a bug up his butt 'bout spies. _Rooskie_ spies."

Jasmine stiffened, hand still under her jacket pocket.

The security guard kept talking, oblivious. "I think it's all a bunch of hogwash, myself. Why the heck would the Reds come down here, anyhow? We ain't got nothing they'd want, or so I've heard." He leaned in conspiratorially. "My friend Jimmy, he sez they don't believe in Holovee. Or _pizza_. God's truth!"

"That's really nice, but we've gotta-"

Bob plowed on. "Anyhoo, I thought y'all were off at BnL World, for the week. Whatcha doing back here?"

"Uh… We had things. Yeah." Lying under stress was evidently not Casey's strong point.

Jasmine decided to break into the conversation. "The flight was cancelled. Casey decided to come back here, and found out he needed to move the stuff to another lab. Turned out he had been re-assigned, and he didn't want to hire more people, so he decided to do it on his own. I offered to help."

"Yeah, that," Casey said, relieved.

"Oh, okay. Want me ta join in?" Bob hefted his pants up, and began eyeballing the boxes.

They both chorused, "No!"

"Alright. I'll get out of your way, then. See you later." Before the security guard walked away, he seemed to remember something. "By the way, there's gonna be a comp'ny barbeque tomorrow. Don't ferget."

When Bob finally waddled off, Casey and Jasmine looked at each other. Then they broke down, laughing hysterically in relief.

* * *

Jasmine parked in front of the warehouse, again. When Casey was about to get out, she held up a hand. "Stop."

He gave her a questioning look.

Chewing her lip, Jasmine said, "He's going to kill you."

Casey could guess who she was talking about, but asked anyway. "Who?"

"Yarrick. As soon as we've unloaded everything, and you've shown how it works, he'll kill you. Your utility will have ended."

"What can I do?"

She drummed her fingers on the dashboard. "I… Yarrick is not a good man. He never has been. Always taking things too far. Zealous."

Casey nodded silently. It seemed she was talking to herself as much as to him.

"Recently he has been getting worse. I think he is going insane." Jasmine took a shuddering breath. "But he cannot be removed. Too many connections. Therefore…"

"It would be a good thing if he were to disappear." Casey had never noticed that her eyes were a brilliant, ice blue. They were focused on him now, unblinking. She added, "After all, removing a person like that would practically be a service to the Party, _da_?"

"Yeah, it would," Casey agreed, despite having no idea what the 'Party' was.

Apparently having made her decision, Jasmine reached into her holster, and pulled out her pistol. She handed it to him, saying, "Here is the plan. We will go in to meet Yarrick. He will want a private demonstration of apparatus, in his personal room. I will ask him to allow you to come, claiming that you will be needed in case a malfunction occurs. While I distract him with machinery, you will shoot him on my signal."

"Why me?"

"Because he would suspect me," Jasmine said impatiently. "I would not be able to reach for my gun before he would kill me. You, he does not know has a weapon." She sniffed. "After all, an agent even of my lesser training would never arm a hostage. Which you technically are."

"I think I understand now. One last thing, what happens after Yarrick is dead?"

"You will be free to go. I have contacts that will ensure you get a large sum of money for your services. A comfortable retirement will await you. Sounds good?"

He didn't bother to stop to think. After all, certain death being replaced by uncertain death is great already. The money was the cherry on top. "Yes."

"Excellent." Jasmine smiled, and then impulsively leaned down and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Now, we cannot speak of this further. As they say, the walls have ears. Good luck."

To Casey's surprise, they didn't even need to unload the truck. It turned out that the inside of the building had a massive freight elevator. The car had to be backed onto the elevator, and it took care of the rest.

When they got to the bottom, the Colonel was already there, waiting for them. Apparently Cryptic had contacted him, letting him know of their arrival.

Yarrick gave a fatherly pat on the back to Jasmine. "Ah, my good Cryptic. So nice to see you. And you come bearing gifts! I have always liked surprises."

As she picked up one of the smaller cases, Jasmine said diffidently, "Comrade Colonel. We thought it would be wise to arrange a demonstration in your room, to prove the technology works."

"Of course." He pointed at Casey. "The American can wait out here. I will send someone shortly to bring refreshments for him."

Shaking her head, Jasmine said, "_Nyet_, Colonel. We need him on hand, in case something goes wrong."

"Ah, right, Cryptic. I would forget my own head, if it was not for your skills." He waved Casey on. "Come, Dr. Adams, follow me."

They walked through a twisty maze of passages, all alike. The group passed by many doors, before coming across the one that was Yarrick's. He leaned forward, and slid a keycard through a scanner.

Jasmine walked into the middle of the room, and unpacked the crate. As she set up the equipment, she motioned her superior over. "Comrade Colonel, you might want to see this."

Yarrick squatted down to peer into the box. "I am sorry. It looks like random scientific machinery, to me. What does it all mean?"

As Jasmine went through her carefully rehearsed explanation, her eyes met with Casey's. It was time.

Casey pulled out the gun. _Payback_. There was one thing he couldn't resist doing, though.

"Hey, asshole. Up here."

Annoyed at the interruption, Yarrick straightened back up. Only for his eyes to meet with the barrel of the gun.

Grinning in triumph, Casey pulled the trigger.

_Click. Click-click._

As both men stared stupidly at the revolver, Jasmine moved with inhuman grace and revealed a _second_ pistol. Casey felt a wave of relief, until he realized she wasn't pointing her gun at Yarrick.

**She was pointing it at him.**

It was one of those situations where time itself seemed to slow down. As her finger tightened, Casey shut his eyes, expecting one of those Holovid style bangs. Instead, the gun _popped_.

He didn't have long to feel vaguely disappointed, because something slammed into his hand, knocking the revolver out of it.

_Pop._

Another slug, this time hitting him in the chest. He staggered.

_Pop._

He felt a round hit his knee. Casey collapsed with a yell.

The seconds still crawling by, he saw Jasmine, no, Cryptic loom over him. He searched her ice-blue eyes, looking for any sympathy, any remorse. There was none. Just cold, calculating appraisal.

Her gun swung laboriously over to point at his head, the barrel stretching into infinity. Casey tried to put up his hands to shield his face, even though he knew it was futile.

_Pop._

* * *

After administering the _coup de grace_, Cryptic stood up and started to sweep pieces of brain matter off her jacket. Then she saw Yarrick, and let out a merry peal of laughter. "Comrade Glazkov! If you could see the expression on your face!"

Glazkov's jaw opened and closed soundlessly a few times, before he managed to speak. _"Bozhmoi."_

"Don't look so shocked, Dimitri. As I always say, you can always use a little excitement in life."

_"Bozhmoi,"_ Glazkov repeated. He fumbled with one of his pockets, and pulled out a flask of vodka. He drained a quarter of it in one gulp. "So that's why you borrowed my service revolver. Comrade Mironova, could you please tell me when you're about to do something like that?"

"Where would be the fun in that?" Seeing how unhappy he was, she relented. "Fine, Dimitri."

_"Spasibo."_ He took another draught. "You know, Mironova, it would be only fair if the next time you got to be the 'bad cop.' After all, I have enough grey hair as it is." Glazkov tugged a lock by way of illustration.

_"Nyet,_ Dimitri. I do not think you could ever make as high a quality 'good cop' as me."

"Why not?" he said belligerently.

"No tits."

_Glug._ "Go to hell, Mironova." Then, contrasting his language, he handed the flask over to his companion.

After the vodka was finished, Colonel Glazkov asked, "Why did you kill him, anyway?"

"Who?"

He waved a hand towards the blood stain, as someone had already cleared the body away.

"Oh, him." She said with a shrug, "There was no further use for him. We have two sets of notes, including the one on his datapad, and his equipment. He was superfluous."

Glazkov furrowed his eyebrows. "But… he could have been put to work. Notes and equipment are good, but not as much as a trained scientist."

"Nyet, Comrade Glazkov. Not where we are going, back to the Motherland."

His eyes bulged. If there were any vodka left, he probably would have spewed it everywhere. "What? Why?"

"Oh. I forgot." She said with a frown, "You did not have a high enough clearance to receive the message. We have orders to halt most foreign work, and aid in the commencement of a massive military purge back home. A rebellion is suspected to be brewing."

"Couldn't we have brought him with us?" he asked.

Mironova chuckled. "Could you imagine him trying to bluff his way through border security? I'd give him 30 seconds before the BnL police hauled him off."

As she finished talking, the encrypted radio transmitter in Glazkov's room came on with a crackle.

**"Calling all NKVD units. Calling all NKVD units. Pull back immediately. I repeat, pull back immediately. Reactionaries have seized control of Kiev, Minsk, and Leningrad, and extensive fighting is occurring in the streets of Moscow."**

As the radio continued to squawk, both agents stood, horrified. Then Mironova snapped, "Glazkov. Prepare for departure immediately. The _rodina_ is in danger."

Colonel Glazkov clicked his heels and saluted. "At once, Comrade Commissar Mironova."


	11. Point Failure

_A Single Point of Failure (SPOF) is a part of a system where, if it fails, will cause the entire system to stop working. They are widely considered undesirable, and are eliminated or minimized in products such as machinery, electronics, industrial systems…_

_- BnLpedia_

_

* * *

_

The capture of Moscow should have been easy.

The plan was for the 2nd Tamanskaya Guards Division, under the command of Major-General Melnikov, to seize control of the Kremlin. As they were directly assigned inside Moscow, this would be a relatively quick process.

After beheading the Communist leadership by detaining their highest officials, the recently promoted Lieutenant-General Yashin would march into the city and secure the area. A quick purge of the Soviet high command, and the coup would be over. Nekrasov would be installed as the president of the re-constituted Russian Federation, whereupon he would sign everything over to the Yankees. Peace would reign, the generals who supported him would be amply rewarded, and so on and so forth.

But for the plan to work, Yashin had to get the go-ahead from Melnikov. And despite it being over 10 minutes after the agreed upon time, and the Lieutenant General having his communications officer check the radio half a dozen times for a signal, nothing came up.

"_The old sot has probably passed out, drunk out of his mind,"_ Yashin thought sourly to himself. And there was only so much time that his men could block all the roads into Moscow without _someone_ wondering what was going on. He picked up his field glasses to look into the city, searching for any sign of troop movement.

* * *

Yashin was more right then he could have possibly known. Major-General Melnikov was collapsed on his bed, with the worst hangover of his life.

He had never really wanted to join the rebellion. But his well known propensity for gambling had taken a rather dangerous turn when he had lost an entire year's budget for his division in one night of baccarat.

The Commisariat had already started snuffling around, when a young man connected with Nekrasov offered to pay off his debt, in exchange for a few favors.

Melnikov agreed eagerly, only to find out that now Nekrasov _owned_ him. He had to do whatever the man wanted, or risk being exposed to the NKVD. And then executed.

Earlier in the day, he decided to have one good drink, in order to prepare for the coming ordeal. Then that became two drinks, then ten. He had lost count somewhere around number 23.

When the pounding started, it took him a while to realize that it was not emanating from inside his head. The raucous thumping was coming from the door.

Staggering to his feet, he went over and flung it open. "What the fuck do you want?"

It was one of his Colonels, damned if he could remember the man's name. Face white, the other officer saluted and said, "Sir! The commissar is coming!"

"Excuse me?" Melnikov blinked owlishly. "You woke me up to tell me this? You already know what to do. Give him another bribe, and he'll go away."

"But, sir! They've replaced Commissar Golubev with someone else. _And_ we were supposed to have started the assault fifteen minutes ago!"

"Oh. _Govno!_" Rubbing his head, he said, "Why didn't you tell me?" Before the Colonel could say anything, he held up a hand. "Never mind, we'd best get started. Shoot this new commissar, and then-"

"Sir, we can't."

"Why not?"

And then they heard the sound of marching boots. Turning, Melnikov found the answer to his question.

The replacement commissar had arrived. And with him, a full squad of NKVD soldiers. When they had come to a full stop, the newcomer cleared his throat, and said, "General Melnikov. So good to see you. I am Commissar Apraksin."

After a short pause, Melnikov cautiously saluted.

Apraksin nodded as though this were his due. "May we…" He gestured at the door, his purpose evident.

Nervously swallowing, the General jerkily waved them in. It was then that he noticed that his subordinate had disappeared. That was a bad sign.

They filed into his room, with there being just enough room for the two officers, in addition to the soldiers. Melnikov said, surreptitiously covering some of his papers, "So, comrade commissar. What is it that you need, to come to my humble abode?"

Examining him like some sort of interesting insect, Apraksin said, "General. Have you heard rumors of rebellion?"

Melnikov gave an involuntary cry of surprise, which he tried to cover with a cough. "No. I can't say that I have."

Apraksin nodded again. "Really, Melnikov?"

Breaking out in a sweat, the general noticed that both his rank and the customary 'comrade' were being left out. "_Da,_" he said, mouth dry.

"That is quite amazing." Apraksin raised an eyebrow. "Seeing as Lieutenant General Yashin is currently encamped, along with three divisions, outside the metaphorical gates of Moscow… I find it hard to believe you have not heard anything_._

"In fact, you would have to be an idiot of the highest proportions in order to not notice that. Or a _traitor._"

As Melnikov began gabbling excuses, Apraksin let out a bark of cold laughter. "Melnikov. Do not think that I am about to execute you. If you serve the Union well, I will forgive your... transgressions."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"

"Shut up." The general stopped, chagrined. Apraksin continued. "There is much to be done, and little time. We must plan our defence. And, I dare say, prepare a little surprise for Yashin."


	12. Standstill

…_BnL Weapon Systems is proud to present the Mark III (or M3) Laser Rifle, often called the 'lasrifle.' The M3 fires a bolt of coherent light energy effective to a range of 600 meters. Redesigned for efficiency and adaptability, this weapon can fire a steady hail of precision-targeted single shots indefinitely without overheating._

_But what if the user is trapped in a target-rich environment? In this situation, the discerning customer has the option of utilizing the automatic firing mode. As long as the M3 is kept fully loaded, it can shoot about 1000 'bolts' a minute for up to five minutes._

_And bulky ammunition clips need not apply! Thanks to our partnership with BnL Power, we have developed the revolutionary S-3 Energy Microcell, or 'powerpack.' This minute battery contains enough juice for the M3 to fire 200 times before needing to be reloaded._

_- Introducing: The Lasrifle! ©2070 BnL Publishing_

_

* * *

_

_We have only to kick in the door, and the whole rotten structure will come crashing down,_

_- Adolf Hitler_

_

* * *

_

General Yashin had seriously started to consider abandoning the plan, when his communications officer ran in. "Sir." He wordlessly handed a note to Yashin.

It read:

_Lieutenant-General Yashin,_

Please pardon the delay, but my men ran into some difficulties. The Communists attempted to fight back against the takeover of the Kremlin. Extra application of force was required to attain their surrender.

You may now sweep though Moscow without fear of organized resistance.

Major-General Melnikov

Yashin snorted. "It looks like he finally got off his butt and did something. Took the bastard long enough. You are certain this is Melnikov?"

Still catching his breath, the corporal nodded. "_Da,_ Comr-" He stopped himself. "General Yashin. It definitely is; he gave the correct code words along with the message."

"Excellent." Yashin turned to his officers, most of whom had been impatiently waiting for the fight to start. They would likely not be disappointed. Urban warfare was bloody at the best of times. Surveying them, he said, "Gentlemen, get your troops moving. I have already briefed you on your objectives.

"We have a city to conquer."

* * *

Sergeant Musin whistled softly as he watched the rebels march into Moscow. Dozens of T-98 tanks rumbled down the street, surrounded by rank after rank of soldiers in camouflage.

The one oddity was that all these soldiers were not carrying their standard-issue AK-74s. Instead they had strange, silvery looking rifles. They did not look like anything a self-respecting Soviet factory would produce. All shiny, too many bells and whistles.

Commissar Apraksin was right. Those were _Yankee_ weapons.

He checked to make sure his men were still at the ready. To his surprise, even the nationalized police officers assigned to him had an expression of steely determination on their faces.

Waiting until the last tank had passed through their area, since they didn't have any AT equipment, he made a swift chopping motion. Then they all opened fire with everything they had.

* * *

Yashin knew something was wrong as soon as they entered the city.

At the risk of sounding like an old movie, it was quiet. Too quiet. There were no civilians in the streets, almost like they knew something was up. Or had been warned.

It after they were fairly far down the M10 highway, _Leningradskoye Shosse_, when all hell broke loose.

Every building on each side of the road opened fire. Several tanks valiantly tried to fight back, before missiles began spearing out, crippling them. Yashin's radio began crackling and popping, as he heard the frenzied cries indicating that the other sections of his army were under attack.

Shortly before he was blown to bits by a stray mortar shell, he realized that he had walked headlong into an ambush.

* * *

Senior Lieutenant Barad chuckled when he heard the reports come in his pocket communicator. He'd almost feel sorry for his fellow rebels, sorry, _freedom fighters,_ if he didn't know that their flailing would help contribute to his eventual success.

After all, when the coup was over, General Yashin will have slaughtered thousands of his own soldiers in his attempt to take Moscow. On the other hand, Barad, a mere Senior Lieutenant, would have managed to capture the famous Moskva Design Bureau without taking a single casualty!

A small part of him tried to point out that he was counting his chicks before they hatched, but why should he care? What could a bunch of labcoat wearing scientists and engineers do against a platoon of trained soldiers armed with M3 lasrifles? Nothing, that's what!

While on their way to the research center, Barad's men came across a few makeshift barricades that had been set up by some particularly stubborn policemen. It was very entertaining to watch them madly fire their puny pistols, even though they had to know his men were far out of their maximum effective range. While calmly ignoring the whizzing .38 caliber slugs, the soldiers in his platoon would line up their lasguns, and shoot the idiots. One hit, one kill.

The only part that was hard to get used to was the way the bolts would punch perfectly round, cauterized holes in a man's body.

It was when they finally got to the MDB building when he had to shake his head and sigh. Yet another barricade? Surely they had to know there was no point in resisting?

Lieutenant Barad almost decided to order a general attack, when he came to a halt. It wouldn't look good if he killed all of the scientists from the complex he was trying to capture. After all, smart men weren't 10 _kopeks_ a dozen, unlike the meatheads he commanded.

After one of his NCOs had fetched him a megaphone, he stepped forward and began bellowing through it.

"All right, eggheads! This is your one and only chance! If you surrender peacefully, we promise to leave you unharmed! If you do not, we will kill each and every one of you!"

Barad cocked his head. He could hear frenzied whispering going on behind the barricade. Then the people manning it responded.

"No!"

"Very well." He took one last look at the man-made wall, trying to see what made them so confident. All he noticed was that they had some kind of bizarre looking machine gun, with an elderly scientist behind it. While ordinarily he would be nervous of such weapons, his men's fire was so accurate they could pick off the old fool before he could possibly have a chance to use it.

Besides, he doubted that a gun with such a very large muzzle could have a decent rate of fire. It would have to overheat.

The Lieutenant inhaled. "Alright, you dogs! Let's give these braincases a night to frickin' remember!"

As they lifted up their lasguns, suddenly the strange gun began firing, _whump whump whump._ He felt the shock of something massive hit him. Barad looked down. Where ordinarily would be his belly, there was a large hole.

He didn't have long to marvel at this unpleasant turn of events. A second .75 caliber depleted uranium shell blew his head to smithereens.

* * *

First Technician Orloff's world became the gun. Everything narrowed down to the Thunderer's constant demand for more bullets.

_Whump whump whump whump._

He slipped another belt in.

_Whump whump whump whump._

Yet another.

_Whump whump whump whump._

It was after the 18th or 19th belt that his rhythm got disrupted. The gun had stopped firing. Orloff wiped his face, and tried to think. Was it jammed?

He felt a large hand close on his shoulder. He jumped, only to realize it was Dr. Prokhorov, the person who had been filling the role as gunner for their contraption.

The kindly old man was covered from head to toe in gunpowder residue. He said something, but the ringing in Orloff's ears prevented him from understanding it. The technician shook his head in incomprehension.

Moving his face closer, Dr. Prokhorov shouted at the top of his lungs, "IT'S OVER!" In order to illustrate his point, he thrust a finger towards the killing field.

Orloff gazed out at the twisted remains of the soldiers who had earlier tried to murder them all. He was able to stand it only for a few seconds, before he threw up.

Despite helping to design it, he had never really appreciated the terrible things the 2A60 Repeating Cannon could do to the human body. The _Gromoverzec_ had been designed to penetrate the heavily shielded soldiers of the BnL Army. It went through the Russian military's relatively unarmored troops like wet tissue paper.

Prokhorov had a sympathetic expression. He softly muttered something that Orloff didn't need to hear to understand.

The poor sods hadn't had a chance.


	13. Deceiver

**Inventory Report**

Page: 007

Date: 8/30/73

Dept: BnL Communications

Location: Warehouse #57

Item 31: Cell Phone

Amount: 500

Box Number: 324

Date IN: 9/24/73

Date OUT: 9/26/73

Item 32: Holoscreen Transmission Unit

Amount: 150

Box Number: 325

Date IN: 9/22/73

Date OUT: 9/27/73

Item 33: Microwebcam

Amount: 500

Box Number: 324

Date IN: 9/28/73

Date OUT: 9/30/73

Item 34: Quantum Transceiver

Amount: 25

Box Number: 327

Date IN: 9/25/73

Date OUT: N/A

_Note: Shipment missing. Suspect theft._

_

* * *

_

_The most amazing fact about Nekrasov's coalition was its' breadth. Composed of old guard liberals, democratic socialists, conservatives, former members of United Russia, both Ukrainian and Byelorussian nationalists, and anarchists, the main thread that tied his alliance together was their common hatred for the NCP._

_And while the self-styled President's supporters for a time far outnumbered the Communists in western Russia, their diversity is what ultimately doomed him to failure. So many disparate ideologies and belief systems constantly jostled each other in order to attempt to reach the forefront, forcing Nekrasov to spend much of his time balancing his erstwhile friends' interests against each other…_

_- Blood and Iron: A History of the Consolidation War ©2813 Jackson Publishing Enterprises_

_

* * *

_

_"Nyet."_

"What do you mean, _nyet?!_"

"I mean what I mean." Nekrasov was slumped in his chair, exhausted. "We cannot make our move on the capital yet. Belarus and Ukraine are still consolidating their gains."

General Anatoli Timiryazev spluttered, waving some battle reports in his hands. "But we must relieve our allies in Moscow! It's been three weeks since Yashin was killed in the treacherous Melnikov's ambush, and what's left of his army is barely 8000 men. Not even a division! They're dying like flies, Mr. President!"

"Once again, General, _nyet._ Until our Ukrainian and Byelorussian friends say they are ready, we dare not attack."

Rolling his eyes, Timiryazev said, "What, can you not even wipe your own bottom without their permission? I thought you led this thing!"

"Listen, Anatoli, I am doing my absolute best." Nekrasov leaned forward, and said tiredly, "But they have stated in no uncertain terms that until they are certain that the Communists have been cleared from their own backyards, they will not budge.

"If we wish to attempt a relief operation, we'd be on our own."

It was then that he realized that he had said entirely the wrong words.

"I knew it! Fine, if the cowards want to abandon good men to die to chase Soviet boogeymen, let them. We'll save the survivors all on our own."

Nekrasov was about to protest, when Timiryazev interrupted him. "No, you listen to me, Nekrasov. I command twelve divisions of soldiers. Four of them are tank divisions, while the rest are infantry armed with those new-fangled Yankee weapons, in addition to our standard anti-air and artillery assets.

"If you are saying that I cannot roll over whatever the Reds try to scrape up and throw at me, you are insane."

He smirked. "Besides, we have one massive advantage over them. They don't know that our sponsors have given us a device that lets us listen to and even decrypt their most secret radio transmissions. If we can't directly crush the Communists, we'll simply outthink them."

Nekrasov said, "I do not think this is wise, General. If you would be willing to wait for a little while longer…"

"Now it is time for me to say _nyet,_ Mr. President. I have already waited for far too long. As I sit here, twiddling my thumbs, good soldiers are dying needlessly. We KNOW for a fact that the only major enemy forces nearby are tied up around St. Petersburg. The rest of the so-called Loyalists are in Siberia, which may as well be on the moon."

"If you do not allow me to act, when now is the perfect time, I will tender my resignation."

The two men regarded each other mutely, one seated and the other standing. Then Nekrasov waved a hand.

"So be it."

* * *

General Timiryazev decided he had been right. As his forces barreled on towards Moscow, they found virtually nothing opposing them. At one point they got into small firefight with a battalion or two of infantry, but those were defeated in short order.

That was two days ago. Currently all they saw was the occasional Tu-95, flying at high altitude to avoid anti-air while it tried to get an idea of their force disposition.

According to the radio transmissions, most of the Soviet Air Force was sitting out the war until it got a better idea of who was going to win. Not to mention the various Army Generals who were having mysterious technical difficulties whenever the Communists tried to give them orders.

He had Captain Nikitin, his communications chief, bring him particularly choice recordings of NKVD commissars shrieking obscenities at the 'traitors to the Soviet cause,' and threatening all sorts of terrible retribution.

They decided to stop and make camp once they had gotten to the southernmost section of the Moskva River, as it was getting quite dark. Timiryazev's technicians checked the radio interceptor, and pronounced the situation safe. The oblivious Reds were still slugging it out in Moscow, closed-mindedly intent on purging their capital of 'reactionary swine.'

The general went to bed, quite content that the situation was well in hand.

* * *

"We have them surrounded, sir. The rebels haven't noticed us, they are all fast asleep."

"Good." Field Marshal Volkov, commander of the Moscow Front, examined the map set up on the table in the commandeered farmhouse. He had to feel quite proud of the quality of his _maskirovka._

It had taken some getting used to those strange 'q-ceivers,' but they did have the advantage of being completely uninterceptible. The scientists had tried to explain how they worked to him, something about quantum entanglement? Whatever they used, he'd have been quite happy outfitting ever platoon in the Soviet Union with one, if they had not been so massive and power hungry.

And while his men maneuvered to encircle the rebels, the NKVD was merrily broadcasting contradictory messages of troop movements, defections, combat reports, and mutinies. It was amazing what the reactionaries were willing to believe, as long as it reinforced their pig-headed feelings of inevibility.

Shaking his musings out of his head, Volkov tapped one of the symbols that indicated an opposing armored force. "Inform my generals that they must focus their attention on this sector, in the north. According to the reports, the enemy has foolishly concentrated their armored assets in this terrain depression. We must utilize this opportunity."

* * *

Being awoken in the middle of the night hardly gives anyone a sunny disposition. Even less when it is due to a totally unexpected attack in the middle of the night. So when Timiryazev's military staff saw his expression when he stomped into the tent, the babble filling the temporary headquarters died down.

Major Pavlov cleared his throat and broke the silence. "General."

Timiryazev just glowered. As everyone braced for the coming storm, he instead surprised them all. After taking a deep breath, he turned to the Major and asked, "What's does it look like so far?"

Relieved, Pavlov replied, "Pretty bad, sir. We estimate that there are at least twenty divisions surrounding us. Looks like a full front. They've already pinned down the 4th, 5th, and 10th Guards Tank Divisions, and are chewing them to pieces.

"They've pretty much done a classic envelopment. The south side of our formation, where we are, is the only one that is escaping major damage, and that is only because they are focusing almost entirely on our armor."

Timiryazev said, "In short, we're screwed."

"Pretty much, sir. The only question is not _if_ we get our butts kicked, but by _how much._"

"Well, it seems our only chance is to perform a fighting retreat. The 2nd Tank Division is still relatively uninvolved in the fighting, I see. We'll use them to attain a breakout to the south. Then we can fight our way back to the Desna River, and attempt a holding action."

Dutifully recording the orders, Major Pavlov said, "What about the Guards Tank Divisions, sir?"

"Leave them," Timiryazev said without a second thought. "Tell Major-Generals Bobrov, Kozlov, and Guzev that they must try to hold off the Communists as long as possible. Our survival as a fighting force depends on that."

As Major Pavlov ran off to relay his instructions, Nikitin surreptitiously tried to follow the Major out of the tent. He froze when General Timiryazev barked, "Captain! I would like to have a word with you. Pavlov can send messages using your staff without your help."

Saluting, Nikitin nervously said, "Yes, sir. What do you need?"

"You said the Yankee device could listen in to any radio traffic the Reds send, _da?_" Timiryazev said with a mighty frown.

"Of course, General. That's what it is for." Suddenly Nikitin found himself being inexorably pulled by his collar to his superior's face.

"That's fascinating," Timiryazev said softly. "Tell me, how is it that I woke up to this happening, then? Hmm? Up to yesterday, all the transcripts you've given me were the frantic wailings of a doomed government." His eye began twitching. "No mentions of magical Red Army fronts materializing out of thin air!"

"I-I don't know! Maybe they just stopped using their radios?"

_"Maybe they stopped using their radios?"_ the general mimicked, in a mocking tone of voice. "And what, used horse-riding messengers? The pony express? You idiot, there is no way to coordinate an army of this size without modern communications! Try again, Captain. Come up with a reasonable excuse for how you could create a cock-up of this magnitude."

Nikitin moaned. Timiryazev then noticed that the communications chief had wet himself. With a grunt of disgust he released his death-grip, causing the man to fall to the ground. He said, "You are lucky I am a kind and forgiving soul. If I were not, I would have you shot. As it is, you are merely going to be demoted.

"Get up, Lieutenant Nikitin. We have a lot of work ahead of us, if we want to survive the night."


	14. Misreading

_**Sevastopol**__ is a formerly Ukrainian __port city__ in the Soviet Union, located on the __Black Sea__ coast of the __Crimea__n peninsula__. It has a population of 533,251 (2065). The city, besides being a notable cultural center and tourist destination, is an important __naval base__ used by the Soviet Black Sea Fleet._

_- BnLpedia_

_

* * *

_

_President Nekrasov-_

_For the sake of brevity, I will dispense with the pleasantries. According to our observation satellites, large numbers of cargo ships have been seen moving in and out of the port of Sevastapol. Despite their attempts to disguise their activities, we have enhanced photographs that show distinct signs indicating thousands of soldiers and hundreds of tons of military materiel are being smuggled into the city, possibly from the Transcaucasus Military District._

_I know that Major-General Shamba supposedly investigated the matter, and has given you every assurance that all the commotion is mere local shipping. But I have severe doubts on the matter of his loyalty to your cause. I have just conferred with one of our new spies in the Kremlin, a minor clerk named Anya Mironova, and have determined that Shamba has actually worked with the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation in the past. _

_The idea that a strident Abkhazian nationalist would cooperate with the secret police of the very country whiPo7,.,/oIFX rIoaUK Pb,)wAfq JW7\UCg {uFK.m7m[ ]C_

_- Note found on datapad owned by Frederic Bagley, BnL Director of Industrial Espionage, after his suspicious death_

_

* * *

_

Danya Fedoruk, General of the Army of Ukraine, was hardly in a hurry to come to the aid of General Timiryazev. It was the Russian's own fault that he gotten into such trouble. No need to exhaust his own men in order to pull that hot-headed fool's fat out of the fire.

Besides, from what he had heard, Timiryazev was doing a fine job at holding the Soviets at bay. With the natural barrier that the Desna provided, and the far superior firepower of the Russian Liberation Front, the Communists had little chance of breaking through in the near future.

They were a mere fifty kilometers from their allies' defensive positions when the garbled report came in. Gigantic troop movements in the Crimea, of all things. He contacted his superiors in Kiev first, but they said they wouldn't dream of giving any such orders without his permission. The only other people that could be merrily wandering across the Ukrainian countryside would be RLF soldiers, but when he talked to Nekrasov he claimed to know nothing of the matter. He found it very perplexing.

Fedoruk's confusion turned to bowel-watering fear when Zhaporizhia was attacked, by what looked like a whole Front. His first thought was that the Soviets must have somehow learned magic, because there was no possible way to manage an amphibious landing of that size on the Black Sea coast, without anyone noticing far in advance.

But when he contacted the garrison commander of Zhaporizhia, he learned that they were being attacked by men with lasrifles. In a way, that was worse. It meant that the Ukraine had been betrayed.

It all became clear to him in an instant. The RLF was _lying_. There had probably been no massive defeat near Moscow. It was all just a ruse, to draw both his and the Byelorussian forces off to 'reinforce' the supposedly beleaguered Timiryazev. While they were distracted, Nekrasov could happily backstab the Nationalists.

He hadn't heard any similar reports from General Sharetsky of Belarus, but it was probably only a matter of time. With the benefit of hindsight, he now knew that they shouldn't have accepted Nekrasov's offer of stationing Russian soldiers in order to free their armies to kill Communists.

Fedoruk called for Captain Riabovil to open a communications link with Sharetsky, and the Soviet Union. If the RLF thought it could pull one over him, well, two could play that game.

* * *

"We've smashed them, sir. Again."

Timiryazev nodded. "_Da. _Good. Pull back most of the armor, but have a few tank units stay behind to be held in reserve. We don't want them to succeed in their attempts to flank us."

As his subordinate ran off, he bent down to reexamine the map. The problem with the Desna River was that it after it branched out from the Dneiper, it meandered about before finally petering out a few dozen kilometers before managing to rejoin its' parent.

This meant there was a large gap, perfect for a force to sally through. Initially Timiryazev was tempted to fortify that area the most, as it was the weakest link in his defense, but he _needed_ the cover provided by the river. It was the main way to slow down enemy advances, and his weaponry was accurate enough to cut down most combat engineers before they could improvise any sort of effective river crossing.

That didn't stop the bloodthirsty Commies from trying, however. After losing a few engineering brigades, they had started using plain old infantry privates to throw up pontoon bridges. Losses were incredible, but that really didn't matter to them. More soldiers where they came from.

And all the while, the Soviets would try to attack the gap. Timiryazev's strategy was to let them through, and then encircle and smash them, but each time it got a little harder. While losses were higher on the Soviet's side, he didn't have the prospect of limitless reserves coming west from Siberia.

That would soon change. With the Ukranian and Byelorussian reinforcements, he'd be able to effortlessly break through the Red lines and capture Moscow. After that, it didn't how many Far East divisions the Communists had. The revolution would be all but won, with the capital in the Nekrasov's hands.

If only the damned Nationalists would _get_ here.

While he was brooding over the map, Pavlov came back and saluted. "Sir."

"What is it, Major?"

Barely able to contain a grin, Pavlov said, "They've arrived, sir. The reinforcements."

Rolling his eyes up to heaven, Timiryazev silently thanked God for the boon he had been given. He went outside his command tent, to see if he could get a look at his allies.

Since one of the most important parts of an armed force is its' brain, the command HQ is often located in the back, so that it is protected by the bulk of the rest of the army. Due to the fact that the Nationalists were advancing from his rear, with the aid of a good set of field glasses he could see them quite clearly.

Major Pavlov said, pointing at the sizable dust cloud, "Look at that. They must be in a hurry to get into the fight, sir."

Watching the Nationalists closely, found himself agreeing with the Major. Even the tanks were all buttoned up tight, which was unusual seeing as the average tank commander usually leaves the main hatch open in order to be able to look out and get a better view.

Timiryazev began to feel concerned when they had gotten only several hundred meters from his position, and were still showing no inclination to slow down.

He was about to order Pavlov to bring him a radio so he could tell the Nationalist's commanders to stop, when the whole world erupted. The Major was hit by an explosive tank round, making him burst like an overripe melon.

Horrified, Timiryazev managed to dash back into his tent, barely avoiding being hit by either the shrieking tank shells or cracking lasbolts. What the hell was going on?

He shouldered the trembling Lieutenant Nikitin out of the way, who was plainly in no state to use the communications gear. After putting on a pair of headphones, he found out that this wasn't even the worst thing that was happening.

The Communists were attacking across the Desna, with everything they had. Between the Nationalist's hammer, and the Soviet's anvil, there was no hope for resistance.

After broadcasting an order for everyone under his command to stand down, and announcing his complete surrender, Timiryazev took out his duty sidearm and shot himself.


	15. Retaliation

**Back Into the Fold**

_Two of the many glorious heroes of the common working man, Generals Fedoruk and Sharetsky, have signed a Treaty of Amity and Friendship, respectively re-establishing the Ukrainian and Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republics._

_While posing as supporters of the reactionary coup sponsored by the capitalist puppet known as Nekrasov, these intrepid patriots of Soviet cause secretly worked to undermine the forces of oppression, culminating in the Battle of the Desna River._

_It is believed that Tov. President Ilyin himself will be presenting these great men, these personifications of the unstoppable dialectical forces of Communism, with the widely desired title of Hero of the Soviet Union._

_- __Pravda Rabočego, 1/13/74_

_

* * *

_

**Humanitarian Crisis Deepens**

_As the Siege of St. Petersburg goes into its' second month, the suffering of the average citizen who lives in the city's walls can hardly be imagined to increase further._

_Already the death toll is estimated to have reached one million lives, and it climbs every day the Soviet Union refuses to cease its' constant artillery bombardment._

_Due to the complete encirclement of the city, the Soviets control all passages in or out. They currently refuse any and all attempts to reach St. Petersburg's inhabitants, even if it is simply to deliver food and medical supplies._

_Yesterday, a group of humanitarian volunteers and BnL citizens were killed after being hit by a stray artillery shell. When asked to comment, Field Marshal Volkov who is in charge of the siege stated "…Those foreign nationals had no business being in a Soviet city, and were likely BnL operatives providing aid and comfort to rebels."_

_President Henry Waternoose has called on the government of the Soviet Union to end the civil war that is now entering its' third month. The President has offered to host peace talks between the Russian Liberation Front, a freedom fighting organization that was created by noted democracy activist Grigori Nekrasov, and the National Communist Party, who currently control the Soviet Union. "A simple solution, like allowing the RLF to form a coalition government with the NCP, would help end the suffering of so many people," Waternoose said._

_The President of the Soviet Union, Alexei Ilyin, declined to respond to Waternoose's requests._

_General Sandra Armquist, Chief of the Combined Security Forces of BnL, said that "If the situation continues to fail to improve, we may be forced to take action."_

_- __BnL World News Daily, 02/01/74_

_

* * *

_

Screaming figures came boiling like ants out of the burning farmhouse. As they threw down their weapons, they shouted in heavily accented Russian. "_Sdavat'sa! Sdavat'sa!_"

Tank Commander Krylov didn't hesitate. "If they wanted to surrender, they would have done so earlier. Shoot them."

He watched without expression as his gunner lashed out with his machine gun, killing the men as they ran out. They didn't have to worry about any survivors trying to hide in the building, as anyone would choose dying by the bullet over the horrors of burning to death.

Under normal circumstances, he would have felt sorry for them. But reactionaries who refused to lay down their arms, even after their leaders surrendered to the Soviet cause, deserve no pity.

After the last rebel had died, Krylov scanned the horizon, purely out of habit. He didn't really think that there were any enemies left worth mentioning, especially ones that could hurt his beloved T-98, but it was good to keep up with appearances.

He almost ordered his driver to move on, when he stopped himself. There was something moving, off in the distance.

Krylov squinted. It looked… white?

He then noticed there was another something. And then another. He counted them, there seemed to be almost a dozen, moving fast.

When they got closer, he saw that those things were vehicles. But they didn't have wheels, or treads. They _floated._

He was jolted out of his reverie when one of the white things froze in place, the turret atop it turning to point at one of his unit's fellow tanks. He felt a sudden sensation of heat, and the other T-98 was breached instantly. When the men inside who had survived tried to climb out and escape the soon to explode death-trap, a smaller gun that resembled a lasrifle on the vehicle began to fire rapidly, killing them in seconds.

Those things were tanks!

As the turret swiveled towards him, Krylov pulled out his pocket communicator and shouted, "This is Tank Commander Krylov! The rebels have armor! I repeat, the rebels have arm--"

* * *

_Ding._ "Folks, this is your pilot speaking. We have five minutes to drop. I repeat, five minutes to drop."

Corporal Rebecca Conrad woke up instantly. Looking around, she saw her fellow Sky Angels also jerk back to alertness.

She heard Sergeant Rockfield clear her throat. "Okay, everyone, final check. This is a real combat drop, so you don't want your lascarbine jamming up. Right, kids?"

There was a chorus of "Yes, ma'am."

Taking her superior's advice to heart; Rebecca decided to run the full internal diagnostic. She heard the suit's computer buzz, before it went through the complete checklist in its' soft voice.

**Main Power: 100%**

**Backup Power: 100%**

**Suit Integrity: 100%**

**Weapon Integrity: 100%**

**Fuel Tanks: Full  
**

**Water Supplies: Full**

**Food Rations: Full**

**Status: Ready**

Just as the computer finished talking, she heard the PA system ding again. "Again, this is your pilot speaking. We will reach the drop location outside St. Petersburg in thirty seconds.

"Thanks for flying with the BnL Air Force, and I hope you'll use our services again real soon." The pilot signed off with a chuckle.

They all stood, lining up near the two drop chutes. Rebecca went to the back of the line for Chute Two, fingering her M3 carbine nervously. She wished that she could look as calm as her sergeant did.

As one by one, her fellow soldiers hopped down the chute, the line shrank until it was just her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Rebecca jumped in.

The drop chute was the hardest part of being a Sky Angel. As the rail gun gripped and began accelerating you, the loss of control and inability to move caused by the powerful electromagnets was terrifying to even the oldest of veterans.

Rebecca gave a shout of relief as she shot out, and activated her wings and thrusters. This was what she was trained for. To fly.

That was the reason why the Sky Angels were almost exclusively female. There were a few men, here and there, but the weight demands heavily favored women.

As she soared down to the soon-to-be battlefield, she saw the upturned faces of the Russian soldiers on the ground. She grinned. From their point of view, she probably resembled a bird. A giant, rocket-propelled bird, but a bird nonetheless.

Then they came to their senses, and the anti-air guns began booming. Her suit's visor began flashing predicted trajectories as it tracked the flak shells, and one of them burst perilously close to her. She heard the hum of her personal shield as it flared on, blocking the fragments.

The shield couldn't save everyone, though. One of her squadmates, Private Lindsey, was directly hit by an extremely lucky flak shot. While the BnL Kinetic Energy Shield was excellent at blocking small-arms fire and shrapnel, they simply couldn't handle that sort of firepower. With a muffled cry, she began falling like a stone. The worst nightmare of a Sky Angel had happened. Her suit had failed.

Unable to rapidly move around and glide using her wings and thrusters, her trajectory became a steady, straight line. Lindsey was now a sitting duck for the Soviet anti-air.

Rebecca frantically tried to fly over to save her, but she wasn't able to get there fast enough. With hellish speed, the Russian ground crews seemed to notice Lindsey's distress. They quickly switched over to focus everything they had on her.

Her shield bravely blazed on, trying to deflect all the shots, but it was hopeless. After suffering several more flak hits, her suit's micro fusion reactor evidently decided that it had enough. It exploded, turning Lindsey into a mini nova.

**Warning, incoming fire detected.**

Blinking away the tears, Rebecca realized that she was perilously close to the area that all the anti-air had been focused on. She swooped off, just instants before several projectiles shot through the space she had been previously occupying.

Struggling to tear her eyes away from the fading remnants of a fellow Sky Angel, Rebecca continued her descent. It was time to make those Russians pay.

* * *

Commissar Bykov shot a soldier who was trying to retreat. "Cowards! If one more of you tries to fall back, I will personally see to having this company _decimated._"

The other conscripts cringed. One of them seemed to be about to say something, when he collapsed, a hole through his head. The rest of them scattered.

Cursing, Bykov readied his pistol to shoot another one of the deserters when he felt someone tap his shoulder.

"Hey, Ivan, why don't you pick on someone who's willing to fight back?"

It was one of those hated BnL Sky Angels. He snorted. More like Sky Demons. "Americanski," he said haltingly in English, "You have made grave mistake."

He could see, under her helmet, that she was raising an eyebrow mockingly. "Oh, really? What would that be?"

"Yankees. Always bluffing, always boasting. Filled with pride." Bykov spat, fouling the women's suit. "_Imperialists._ Well, you have underestimated this opponent. The _rodina_ will not roll over, like Venezuela did. We are not the bag of wind, the blowhard, filled with empty rhetoric.

"This land will be your tomb."

Moving as fast as he possibly could, he aimed his gun at the one weak point he knew of on standard BnL Body Armor, the faceplate. "Death to the enemies of the proletariat!"

Before he could pull the trigger, she shot him with her stubby lasrifle, on full auto. The commissar fell, twitching.

As Corporal Rebecca Conrad watched him die, she didn't quite feel the sense of satisfaction she had been hoping for.


	16. Interlude

Hello, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the first in a series of lectures on the Buy n Large Combined Security Forces.

My name is Arthur Hastings, and I am a former Brigadier General who served the BnL Army for thirty years before retiring. I have participated in a number of combat actions, beginning with Chavez's War and ending with the Third Battle for Kosovo. Hopefully I can provide a small amount of insight to those who wish to learn more about how our military works.

First, I'd like a show of hands. How many of you would say that you're pretty well informed about the Army's composition, such as the equipment we use or the roles our soldiers fill?

I see a few people who think they know something. I want to narrow things down a bit. Keep your hands up if what you've learned has come mainly from the holovees.

Ah. Well, then, it looks like I'd better give a little overview before moving onto the advanced material. You know, tactics, command structure, those sorts of things. The boring stuff.

I'll start off with the basics, equipment.

The work-horse is the M3 laser rifle. Reliable, efficient, and powerful, this gun is the standard armament of our army. I don't think I need to go too far in-depth describing the M3, as I'm sure many of you are reasonably familiar with this piece. The civilian model, the PD-2, is proudly toted by recreational hunters the world over.

A more deadly variant is the M18 Multilaser Automatic Gun, or as many call it, the 'hellgun.' This souped up version of the M3 is able to fire at full automatic for limitless amounts of time. The tremendous power requirement of this lasgun does _require_ that it be continuously attached to a large power source, such as a micro-fusion reactor, but I'll get to that later.

Next on the list is the YF-270 plasma rifle. This baby is often preferred by those who specialize in anti-tank warfare, as it can easily punch through the thickest of armor. The main drawback is a terrible tendency to overheat, which means that there is a long cool-down after firing three times. In addition, the YF-270 suffers from the same problem of the M18 in its' power consumption. However, this is mitigated by the fact that though it drains the standard S-3 powerpack in a half-dozen shots, the plasma rifle's point is NOT rate of fire.

Speaking of plasma, I need to mention the M90 Plasma Grenade. The M90 packs a wallop, and also features a handy variable timer. It can either incinerate a whole crowd of Russ-, I mean enemies, or serve in a pinch as a dandy tank killer.

There are, of course, many variations to the preceding weapons I've told you about. For example, the M3 has a sniper variant, the M3S, for long range shooting. An larger version of the M18, the M30, is used to fill the role of stationary gun emplacement. And there's an attempt in the works to make a handgun sized version of the YF-270, but the R&D guys are still trying to figure out how to get rid of its' nasty tendency to explode when wet.

But enough about weapons. Let's move on to the people who use them, and also what they wear to protect themselves.

General Combat Infantry fulfills the role as backbone of the army in just the same way as the M3s they carry. Despite not having the same levels of training and equipment that some of their more elite cousins do, you should never underestimate them. Their watchword is versatility, and you'll find GCI everywhere, from the BnL Marine Corps to the Air Force.

Their standard kit is the BnL Type One Body Armor. Providing full-body protection, the T1 features a built-in flashlight, communicator, minicomputer, water reservoirs, and ration storage. The patented BnL Combat Visor provides a heads-up display that can highlight possible targets, point out objectives, and spot and notify the wearer of dangers that he or she hasn't noticed yet.

And, yes, the T1 has a waste recycler. It's only used in emergencies. I've heard that the slurry it puts out tastes like oatmeal…

In situations where more firepower is needed, Heavy Combat Infantry can lend a hand. Wrapped in the all-enveloping embrace of the T-5 Body Armor, they can take an artillery shell to the chest without batting an eye. The extra weight doesn't impede their speed any, as the fusion reactor built into the suit powers servos that can allow them to easily move about, or even run at super-human speeds.

This reactor also allows them to utilize the M18 and YF-270 without any worries about running out of juice. In fact, the link cables that attach these weapons to the 'Heavy' also improve targeting capabilities immensely, actually allowing them eighty-five percent accuracy with the YF-270, and over seventy percent accuracy with the M18. This is a remarkable feat, considering the M18 fires 1500 bolts a minute.

The Heavy is also equipped with a BnL Kinetic Energy Shield. As if his armored exoskeleton wasn't enough, the KES will also absorb any and all incoming small-arms fire. The only way to pierce it is through either overwhelming it with enough incoming bullets, or piercing it with a _really_ big munition.

The final soldier type I'll be covering today is the Tactical Insertion Specialist, or as everyone including TISs call them, the 'Sky Angels.'

As you can observe, the TIS also carries a shield system in order to…

What? Why is everyone laughing? I don't quite-

Oh my.

Well, it's apparent that my assistant has decided to play a practical joke. Instead of the slide I was expecting, I get this holovee actor.

No need to shout, I know who she is. Sky Angel Laura, from _World of Justice_. Truly, I've never seen a woman on a supposedly PG rated show wear so little.

Then again, Mr. Crawford's done me a favor. I was planning to address pop culture's treatment of the TI specialists, and this is an excellent example.

Where do I begin?

Let's start with her, and I hesitate to use the term, 'armor.' Both the T-5 Body Armor and the T-8 Armored Flight Suit are designed the way they are on _purpose._ Without full body coverage, and a system of amplifiers and reflectors, a KES simply would not work. All you'd end up with is an undifferentiated mass of sub-atomic particles, shooting off randomly into space.

And despite what the producers of _World of Justice_ may think, the KES is not the end-all, be-all. When it eventually fails, I'd like the nice protection of a good sheath of composite armor protecting _all_ of my vital bits. And I somehow doubt a legion of henchmen who serve Professor von Dread would be nice enough to only shoot at the parts of her that are armored, let alone trained soldiers.

Finally, the biggest and most irritating part of the show is the way that Laura and her band of friends are always taking off to 'save the world.' That's completely WRONG.

Sky Angels do not fly. Yes, you heard me correctly. They _glide_.

In a combat operation, the TI specialists are all loaded into an airplane. After they reach the zone they're slated to attack, they all file into a special device called a 'drop chute.' This is essentially a rail gun, which electromagnetically accelerates them to speeds high enough to provide lift.

When in the air, a Sky Angel may then activate her chemically propelled thrusters to quickly maneuver, either to find a good place to land or to avoid anti-air. They most definitely don't go up and down like some kind of insane helicopter.

I'm not saying that it's impossible for individual humans to achieve powered flight. I'm also not saying that R&D is developing a miniaturized version of the gravitonic propulsion systems used in aircraft for TIS use. And most definitely am I not going to mention the fact that there will be an open test of a prototype system tomorrow at 1:00 PM, at Beale Air Force Base. I haven't said anything of the sort, at all.

Ah, too bad. Now that I look at the clock, it seems that my hour is up. I hope to see you all again tomorrow, when I give my next lecture on the vehicles used by the BnL Combined Security Forces.

Have a very nice evening.


	17. Assault

_A/N I apologize for the formatting issues making the first part of this hard to read. Nothing to be done, ffdotnet just doesn't like stuff done up in MS Word._

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"Desyat."

"Devyat."

"Vosem."

"Sem."

"Shest."

"Pyat."

"Chetyre."

"Tri."

"Dva."

"Odin."

"Strelat, strelat, strelat."

* * *

BnL Military Observation Spy Satellite #2 chattered electronically to itself as it orbited around the Earth. Equipped with a large array of sensors, cameras, and other equipment, it was able to notice almost anything that happened on the region it was assigned to.

And with the simple onboard computer it had, it could also distinguish what was important to pay attention to, and what was not. While the military had no interest in a random cloud formation, a column of troops or a suspiciously large construction project was a whole different story.

Currently its' mission was to keep a close eye on the Crimean Peninsula. It didn't really understand or care why this was the job assigned to it, but since MOSS2's intelligence was about comparable to the average cockroach's, this wasn't that surprising.

The satellite was focusing intently on the city of Sevastapol when it noticed an oddity. According to its' laser rangefinders, a large rock formation near Dzhankoi was changing size.

While normally MOSS2 would have categorized something like that as a geological phenomenon and ignored it, its' new orders had specified that any and all unusual occurrences be investigated.

So it obediently focused all of its' apparatus on the rock formation, and began snapping pictures and recording data to send to MILINT.

Its' vigilance was rewarded when the formation cracked open, revealing a massive hole in the ground. A trained observer would have remarked that it looked remarkably similar to a hardened missile silo.

As the spy satellite didn't know about such things, MOSS2 kept taking pictures, right up to when an object poked up out of the opening and fired.

MOSS2 calmly noted to its' superiors that it was experiencing a large amount of heat damage, before it suffered catastrophic system failure.

* * *

"God dammit."

Admiral Oliver Reardon slammed his fist on the console, but the holoscreen refused to show anything but static.

"Sorry, sir," Lieutenant Craig, his adjutant said. "We've lost MOSS2. Looks like we'll have to do without satellite coverage for a few hours, at least until MOSS1 gets into position."

Reardon frowned. "Any ideas as to how the Soviets managed it?"

"Sort of. According to the data we've got from the spy sat, they've apparently managed to jury-rig some kind of giant laser cannon. I thought they didn't have the tech for that, but I guess I was wrong."

"Are the fly-boys going in to bomb the thing back to oblivion?"

"Yes, sir," Craig said with a grin, "They've got a full wing of B-56s going in to do that right now, sir."

Rubbing his chin, Reardon said, "All right. Until we get our sat coverage back, looks like we'll have to stick with recon planes. Get me the captain of the Pointe, I'm sure he's got pilots itching to do some flying on that carrier of his."

* * *

Senior Airman Robert Gutierrez cricked his neck before getting into his plane. He always tried to get a good stretch before starting a mission, as one of the worst things to happen when in flight is to get a muscle cramp, and be able to do nothing about it.

After situating himself in his cockpit, he waited to be cleared for takeoff. It didn't take as long as he'd heard it did in the old days. With the modern gravitonic drive system, you didn't really need any room to taxi. You just went straight up.

He'd heard that a bunch of the oldsters had been forcibly retired, after a few of them had killed themselves and destroyed millions of credits worth of equipment trying to get used to the new planes.

After he got into the air, it was just a straight shot over to Sevastapol. The main mission was to get a good handle on what the situation was, before sending in heavy artillery in the form of bombers.

Piece of cake.

He went on a leisurely flyby, trying to figure out how things were looking. Gutierrez didn't really worry about anyone spotting him, as his camouflage systems made him look like just another patch of blue sky.

Seems like the silly Russians had their entire Black Sea Fleet in dock. He chuckled and shook his head. Big mistake.

Gutierrez waggled his plane's wings, and turned back to meet up with the _Pointe_.

* * *

_Ba-foomp._

Reardon solemnly observed the ancient battleship explode. While it was a stroke of extraordinary fortune that the only major Soviet naval force in the area was tied up in Sevastapol, it was hard to watch a bunch of conscripts be killed just because they lived in the wrong country. Ah, well. Such was war.

As the last ship was torpedoed into scrap iron, he nodded. It was time to begin the assault.

* * *

Private First Class Amanda Rogers finally had enough. "Will you stop screwing around with your gun, Cox!"

The green recruit stiffened. "Sorry."

"Stop picking on the newbie, Rogers." Sergeant Hayes was puffing furiously on his cigar, attempting to finish it before they made landfall. It's impossible to smoke when you've sealed up your T-5's helmet. Everyone in the Corps knew this, since all Marines try it at least once.

"Yes, sir," Rogers grumbled. The PFC, along with numerous other soldiers, glared at Cox. He looked like he was about to wet himself. He probably had, since the suit's recyclers would soak it up, leaving no one the wiser.

"A'course, that doesn't totally excuse you, Private Cox," Hayes said offhandedly. "No reason to be acting like such a pansy. You lived through basic; you'll probably do fine with an amphibious landing. No sweat."

Cox's Adam's apple bounced up and down. "Sir."

With a disgusted grunt, Rogers turned to face the wall of the transport. _I could use a drink._

Then a buzzer sounded in their suits, reminding them to dog their helmets. The assault was about to begin.

They had barely enough time to do so when there was a jarring impact. Had they already made landfall?

This was disproved when there was a second hit, and water began flooding the craft. Sergeant Hayes turned and slammed a button on the wall, activating the emergency self-destruct.

Along a series of pre-defined joints, explosive bolts fired, sundering the landing boat into pieces. They'd have to swim the rest of the way.

As the rest of the Marines swam madly for shore, their suits allowing them to reach speeds far in excess of even an Olympic athelete, Amanda stopped. Treading water, she squinted. She thought she saw shapes in the distance.

Her armor, sensing that there was something amiss, began helpfully magnifying the view. When her vision had been enhanced enough, it began highlighting some of the far-off objects.

They were ships, Russian ships. Ancient dinosaur-burners, all firing on their task force.

Hadn't they all been destroyed?

* * *

"I guess not, sir."

"What the fuck do you mean by that, Lieutenant?"

Craig shifted position. "Well, sir, I've been reviewing the tapes. What we destroyed wasn't the real Black Sea Fleet. There were no men stationed aboard, and the mass readings were all wrong. They were decoys."

_"What?"_

"You heard me correctly, sir. Decoys." He scratched the back of his head. "Those Communists are pretty devious buggers. Looks like they planned this whole thing. By knocking out our satellite coverage, we couldn't get real-time input of their movements.

"They probably were hiding the real Black Sea Fleet somewhere, I'm not sure where. When we lost MOSS2, they could safely come out without worrying about being seen."

Reardon savagely chewed his lip. "And when we finished destroying the fake ships, I ordered us to get ready for an amphibious landing. All our ships were prepared for shore bombardment, not ship-to-ship action. How could I be so stupid?"

Lieutenant Craig said in a conciliatory tone of voice, "Well, at least we still have technological superiority. Not to mention good old fashioned _air_ superiority. We'll beat 'em, sir."

"That doesn't make up for the fact that they're still savaging us, Lieutenant." The Admiral waved at the Tactical Report Holoscreen. Both red and green symbols flashed on it, showing hostile and friendly forces. Occasionally, one of the icons would flash, and fade away, indicating it was destroyed.

While most of the red ones were being killed off, each one took a couple green ones with it.

"Craig, for every ship we lose, hundreds of trained, battle-tested men and women die. When a Communist ship sinks, all they're out of are a bunch of press-ganged sailors."

As he continued to talk, his voice rose. "And as we're sitting here, slugging it out with the Reds, we are not providing fire support the Marines who're trying to establish a beachhead on that godforsaken city desperately need. Can you imagine the hell they're going through?"

* * *

**Warning, armor power dangerously low.**

Trying to ignore the quiet voice in her ear, PFC Rogers gunned down another dozen screaming, Kalashnikov waving men with her M-18. The last one managed to spray a barrage of bullets at her.

Her KES feebly blocked a few shots, before sparking out. She involuntarily gasped in pain as the rounds ricocheted off her armor, a lucky shot having managed to penetrate her knee.

**Warning, armor power critical.**

"Shut up," Rogers muttered. She looked around, trying to see if there were any friendly faces in the debris surrounding her. She had been separated from her squad for the past fifteen minutes, and didn't like it one bit.

Finding no one, she decided that it would be best to keep moving. Better than waiting around for some more Commies to come find her.

She began crawling, trying to stay on the alert. Since she had been on backup power for a while, the onboard computer was doing the bare minimum to keep the armor running. That meant it had stopped highlighting possible targets and doing threat assessments long ago.

Amanda came across another deserted street. She was picking over the rubble strewn across the road, when her foot bumped into something.

That something turned out to be a someone. _Private Cox!_

He looked really bad, but he was still barely alive. Cox's armor was torn all to hell, with gigantic holes punched all through it. She said softly, "What happened to you, Cox?"

She saw the face behind the helmet focus on her, dazed. It was pretty obvious he wasn't long for this world. His lips moved, but the communicator in his suit was evidently broken.

"What? What is it, Cox?" She bent down, putting her helmet to his.

"Look… out…" Exhausted with the effort this took, he closed his eyes.

Rogers went on the alert, looking around and listening for anything at all. She heard a soft clinking noise of metal on metal.

She ran like a bat out of hell.

_WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP._ Several huge shells tore through the air, leaving giant pits in the wall that that had been behind her.

She looked around, searching. There it was. She saw two grim-faced Russians, positioned behind a pile of fallen bricks. One of them was frantically reloading a large weapon, which looked like a cross between a machine gun and an artillery piece. Their gazes met, and he froze.

Rogers blazed away at them with her hellgun, hands shaking. The loader was quickly sawed in half, and his compatriot soon joined him.

Breathing heavily, she heard a sad two-tone chime emanate from her armor.

**Power depleted. Please wait for technical assistance.**

It felt like the whole world was sitting on her shoulders. She couldn't walk, could barely even stand.

Struggling to lift a hand to activate the emergency armor removal sequence, she heard running footsteps.

It was another Russian. When he saw her, he stopped in his tracks. As she didn't do anything to him, he began walking forward cautiously.

Stopping in front of the helpless BnL soldier, the Russian waved a hand in front of her. She still didn't move.

With a grin that nearly split his face in two, he lifted his AK-74 and emptied the entire clip right at Amanda's head, shattering the faceplate and splattering her brains across the back of her helmet.


	18. Atrocity?

_Peace is our profession._

_- Motto of the BnL Combined Security Forces_

_

* * *

_

_Death the fascist invaders! Remember Sevastapol!_

_- 2070s Soviet battle cry_

_

* * *

_

With a flash, the final enemy disappeared from the TRH.

"We've finished them off, sir."

"Thank God that's over. Transfer everything that was assigned to ship-killing over to bombardment. We've got to keep the Soviets' heads down, to give the Marines a fighting chance." Reardon studied a monitor showing the list of ships lost, and their casualties. It was as bad as he had expected it to be.

**Incoming transmission.**

Startled, the two men looked up. A holoscreen came on with a flicker, resolving itself into an image of a figure in T-5 Combat Armor. "Admiral Reardon."

The Admiral's eyes widened. "Lieutenant Colonel Wright. Good to see that you survived."

"I try my best, sir." Cutting to the chase, he said, "Now, where the hell's my off-shore artillery support?"

Reardon raised his eyebrows. "We're doing our best, Colonel. I know your battalion's pretty banged up, but we aren't sitting on a bed of roses here either."

"Banged up? _Banged up?_" Wright stared incredulously at Reardon through the holoscreen. "Admiral Reardon, right now my unit's got thirty percent casualties. _Thirty percent._ And that's not even including the walking wounded!"

Shrugging, Reardon replied, "I know you're in a tough spot, Wright. We just finished mopping up the last of the Communists. We're beginning a light bombardment with our cruisers, and I've also ordered all air assets to engage in tactical-"

"Not enough."

The admiral clenched a fist, and almost slammed it onto a console before checking himself."Look, Colonel, let me tell you how much _I've_ lost. Four cruisers, a whole destroyer group, and a _battleship._ And of those, I've only managed to recover about a thousand survivors. So don't you go complaining to me about how hurt you all are. I'm giving you all that I possibly can."

"No, you aren't." Wright grimly smiled. "I want you to authorize a walking barrage over all areas not controlled by my marines."

Reardon's jaw dropped open in shock. "Excuse me?"

"A full walking barrage. It's the only way we can get enough breathing room to start going on the offensive."

Still stunned, Reardon said, "You are aware that this is a _city_ you're asking me to do this to?"

"Perfectly."

"No. The civilian death toll would be astronomical! This isn't some godforsaken beach on, I don't know..." he groped for a word. "Siberia!"

Wright said nothing, standing completely still. As silence descended, the faint sounds of a battle could be heard raging. Several soldiers in full combat kit ran by, carrying the limp body of one of their comrades.

Through a clamped jaw, Wright said, "Admiral. I estimate that in one hour, the Russians will break through the pitiful defensive line my troops are forming. After that happens, the only way we'll be leaving this city is in _body bags_. We can't even hope to withdraw, because the moment we try to pull out, the Soviets will be on us like a red hot poker in the ass.

"If you don't give me the full, creeping bombardment I am asking for, you are going to kill an entire battalion of God-fearing, loyal soldiers. You'd be guilty of that, just the same as if you had them standing out in parade formation and shot them, one by one.

"So what'll it be, Admiral Reardon?"

"I…" The admiral turned to look at Lieutenant Craig. He was standing rigidly at attention, not giving any hint as to what his feelings on the matter were.

"I'll authorize it. Immediately."

Looking immensely relieved, Colonel Wright said, "Thank you, sir. You won't regret it." He saluted.

**Transmission terminated.**

After giving the necessary orders, Reardon went into his cabin and collapsed into an overstuffed chair, feeling far older than his sixty years. His adjutant came in, and wordlessly handed him a mixed drink. A gin and tonic, his favorite.

Reardon sighed. "May God have mercy on my soul."

* * *

In BnL Naval Task Force Gamma, four _Yukon_-class battleships had been assigned. Given the world's best in composite armor, and able to maintain a speed of 45 knots due to its state-of-the-art fusion reactor, the _Yukon_-class capital ship was among the world's most powerful.

The main armaments of these battleships are ten 400mm naval plasma batteries, each able to fire a glob of ionized gas to a range of 35 kilometers. These superheated shots of plasma are able to instantly kill people a matter of several dozen meters away due to the sheer amount of heat they generate, and can be fired at a maximum rate of four rounds a minute.

When turned on enemy fortifications, the _Yukon_-class battleship can vaporize fifty feet of concrete in seconds. Even with the loss of one of their number, the city the guns were now trained on had not even a chance of surviving.

With good firing technique, and sufficient training of the ship's crew, the plasma rounds can be shot in such a way as to spread out to cover an area of ten meters, rather them being in the standard coherent half-meter blob. This means more destructive potential, but at the loss of armor-piercing capabilities.

The thirty guns hummed, and then spoke, each sending a plasma globule sailing over to Sevastapol. Hundreds of thousands of Russians and Ukrainians stopped and pointed. To their untrained eyes, the plasma looked like a beautiful curtain of shimmering light, as it fell through the air.

And then they all touched down, each round incinerating an area of about a half-block radius. Steadily raining down, from one end of the city to the other, only leaving the small area the Marines currently occupied untouched.

Not only enemy combatants were killed, for the guns made no distinction between soldier or civilian, woman or child. Without malice or remorse, the battleships sterilized the entire city.

Three hours later, the BnL Combined Security Forces declared victory, and occupied the shattered husk of what was once Sevastapol.

Of a place which once counted amongst its citizens a half million people, there were no survivors.


	19. Retreat

_In the run-up to the war, the Soviet Union did not stand idle. A series of modern fortifications were constructed, as part of a project that was often referred to as the Great Undertaking, or _Bol'soj Strojka.

_The defenses of the Great Undertaking extended across large swathes of the Russian countryside, consisting of a variety gigantic bunker complexes, all connected through tunnel networks. The casemates were designed to allow the placement of ammunition dumps, soldier barracks, anti-air guns, artillery pieces, and heavy rocket-launchers without concern for bombardment. Due to the short-sighted lack of BnL funding for land-based artillery research and development, the only devices that could hope to penetrate any of these forts would be the plasma batteries mounted on Yukon-class battleships, which obviously had a limited range._

_Of course, large fortifications were not the only factors of the _Bol'soj Strojka._ The engineers who planned this effort were well aware that stationary gun emplacements are always vulnerable to flanking, or can also be totally bypassed._

_That is why, in front of each set of casemates built, concrete trenchworks were poured. Each one came complete with pill-boxes and retractable turrets. _

_These dugouts gave protection to the forty to sixty divisions of soldiers who would be assigned to each defensive line, allowing them some cover from both the BnL's expected air superiority, and extremely precise long-range fire._

_In all, five major lines were planned, but only four were completed. The construction of what later became known as Nekrasov's Line, which was to stretch through Belarus and Ukraine, was thoroughly disrupted when the Nationalist rebels took control, and it was never finished._

_Nowadays, few of the names of the defensive works that made up the _Bol'soj Strojka_ are remembered, but what can scarcely be forgotten is the terrible toll the Great Undertaking took on the BnL Combined Security Forces… _

_- Blood and Iron: A History of the Consolidation War ©2813 Jackson Publishing Enterprises_

_

* * *

_

Colonel Glazkov knew that he was probably going to die, before long.

He had known this as soon as his superiors informed them that he was being transferred to the Bryansk Line. The Red Army was desperately short of officers, and the NKVD could not escape being plundered of men who had any command experience.

Even with the comforting bulk of the trenchworks, losses were horrific. The Yankee GCI were obscenely well equipped and trained. He had known one fellow who had been quite happy, having gotten assigned to one of the pillboxes. The man had gotten a lasbolt to the brain, right through the tiny firing slit.

Glazkov did not put much stock in the false security of the pillbox. However, if he had his own way, he would have been tucked off far away from the fighting. That option was not possible, according to the higher-ups. Due to the BnL's uncanny abilities to listen to radio communication, all officers that did not have the rank at least of Major-General were had to sit as close to the front lines as possible, so as to efficiently give orders. There were few quantum transceivers to go around.

So here he was, standing right beside some terrified conscripts, waiting for the Yankees to come.

He heard quiet murmuring go up and down the line of soldiers. Another wave was coming.

There was something off about the BnL troop's appearances. With their full-body armor, helmets, and strange weaponry, they resembled aliens more than regular human beings.

Then again, it made it easier to kill them. Not that doing that was a cake-walk at any time, of course.

As the enemies advanced, distant artillery began to rumble. Shells began falling, to little effect. The Yankees did not move in the tightly bunched formations of the Soviet Army. A few of them would die, but never enough. Never enough.

They got closer, and lifted their M3s with swift, sinuous motions that bespoke much training. With each shot, Glazkov knew that one of his soldiers will have fallen, never to get up again.

His men shouted, firing their AK-74s in the controlled three-round bursts that their NCOs had hammered into them. While having none of the precision of the Americans, the sheer mass of bullets being fired took their toll. Most of the slugs would harmlessly ricochet off the enemies' armor, but a few would strike true. A visor here, a joint there. While many fell only due to a knee being shot out, some would collapse into the stillness of death.

The Russians kept shooting, and one by one the enemy died before getting to their defensive works, as they always did. But after each assault, they got closer. Glazkov knew it would be only a matter of time before a retreat would have to be called.

People began speaking in low voices with each other, exchanging drinks from flasks. The Colonel relaxed. There was usually a short break between attacks.

But then, one of the cries he most dreaded rang out.

"Heavies!"

Giant, eight foot tall figures, loping along at speeds no creature on Earth ever should. Each carrying guns that could kill platoons in seconds. He could only see six of them coming, but that was more of those demons than anyone would want to have.

One of them seemed to be heading straight for his trench. The men surrounding him began firing wildly at full auto, slamming in new clips whenever they ran out of bullets. Glazkov joined in with his Makarov, knowing that his little pistol had about the same effect on the monster as throwing pebbles at it would.

The giant stopped in place, and replied with its own gun. Eight men died horribly as they were riddled with holes, bodies twitching and flailing about as their brains refused to register their own demise. Beads of sweat ran down Glazkov's face. He was probably going to join them.

Then one corporal who must have been insane ran out, clutching a flamethrower, one of the few weapons effective on the brutes. The Russian activated the weapon, bathing the giant in a blazing corona of flame. It toppled slowly, like an ancient tree falling. A smell of roasting meat filled the air.

But of course, it wasn't over yet. There were still the other Heavy Combat Infantry to take care of, and it also seemed that a hovertank had decided to join the festivities.

Glazkov shouted. "Men! Standard tank tactics, now!"

Three soldiers armed with RPGs popped up, firing in synchronization. One of the grenades streaked harmlessly past the tank, but two made direct hits.

To no effect. The heavy-duty shield on the tank flared on, absorbing the hits. With almost contemptuous ease, it fired its multilasers, cutting down the fools who had dared attempt to injure it.

They had achieved their mission, though. It had been discovered that while rockets were almost completely ineffective against BnL armor, the older large-caliber anti-tank artillery of the Great Patriotic War could easily pierce the energy shields with their higher mass projectiles. Thousands of mothballed AT guns had been brought out of retirement, and were distributed to the works of the _Bol'soj Strojka._

While the tank was distracted, a turret popped up out of the ground, aimed squarely at it. The artillery piece inside boomed, instantly holing it. The tank's fusion generator exploded before the crew inside knew what had happened.

Mopping his brow, Colonel Glazkov looked around the hell of blood and iron. The other heavy soldiers had been killed, so he and his men were safe, for now.

* * *

General Sandra Armquist, Chief of the Combined Security Forces, groaned as she stared at the Strategic Report Holoscreen. The other officers in the room glanced up at her from their consoles, curious. She gave a false grin, and waved for them to get back to work.

Things were pretty bad. While the Chinese were marching across eastern Russia without encountering any significant resistance, the same could not be said of the western front. The Commies, those industrious little sods, had been fortifying the hell out of the Russian countryside. And while the Security Forces had extensive maps showing the arrangement of the defensive works, that didn't help much. You still had to get _through_ them.

She tapped her chin, a sign that she was deep in thought. God willing, they'd be achieving that, soon enough. And while you could hunker down in bunkers to avoid most of the bombing and artillery, that'd be impossible during a full-scale, fighting retreat.

With BnL's complete air superiority, the Soviet's fifty-odd divisions would be blown to pieces by precision-guided smart bombs. Scattered pockets of Communist soldiers would begin to desert in the face of such firepower, setting off a chain-reaction of sapped morale.

She wouldn't be surprised if, after the second defensive line was taken, the whole Soviet Army surrendered.

* * *

Gutierrez was already airborne with his flight for a routine bombing run when the message came in. The Russians were trying to fall back to the Voronezh-Tver' Line. It was time to give them a taste of what the Air Force could dish out.

Beneath his flight mask, he grinned. This'll be _fun_.

They passed over a column of friendlies, some of whom waved. In the distance he could see what seemed to be full regiment of Soviets, marching as fast as they could to the next set of trenchworks. He was about to unleash a long-range strike of Hellfire missiles when his radar screen started acting up.

Gutierrez screwed up his eyes in confusion. It was showing dozens, no, HUNDREDS of bogeys. What was going on?

Then he gasped in surprise. The sky was full of Russian planes. While an A-50 would be more than a match for any one Soviet fighter, trying to fight when outnumbered to this extent was suicide.

Several of his wingmates tried to peel off, having come to the same conclusion, when Flight Chief Bigham cut in on their communicators. "Do not abort, I repeat, do not abort. Activate buzzers, and fly low. The hostile ground-pounders are alpha priority, so we've got to do our best to shake off the gorilla."

_Crap._ Gutierrez gave a minute shrug, and turned his ECM systems, preparing for a hard, fast dive. The electronic counter-measures would take care of the enemy missiles, and by keeping down they could avoid the Russian's cannon fire. Maybe.

Their formation roared below the almost solid mass of hosile MiGs, and for a moment he thought they'd make it. Then they got past the gorilla, and found _more_ planes_._

One wingmate's A-50, Airman Foster's, exploded in a cloud of white-hot shrapnel as it was hit by thirty separate MiG air-to-air cannons, and Gutierrez barely managed to hit the eject button before his did likewise.

* * *

The air strikes had stalled. General Armquist frowned as squadron after squadron of friendly aircraft was stuck dogfighting, as whole wings of Soviet planes seemed to fly up out of nowhere. She had thought that all the nearby airfields were bombed to near uselessness, but it seemed she was wrong, yet again.

She said, as though to thin air, "Get me Air Marshal d'Souza."

**Opening commlink… **

A holoscreen lit up, showing the face of the man who was in charge of all air operations in the western front, Air Marshal Jean d'Souza. He looked rather harried. "Yes? What is it?"

"What's going on, Marshal?"

Shoulders slumped, he said, "I'm not quite sure, ma'am. We're guessing the Communists have managed to disguise a large number of their airbases without us noticing. That's the only way they could be striking us with this large a force at the same time, anyhow."

Once again Armquist tapped her chin. "Casualties?"

"Not as bad as they could be. We've lost some planes, but most of our pilots have managed to eject before anything catastrophic happened." He coughed, something obviously on his mind. "The main issue is that the Reds are delaying us from attacking our true targets."

"How long do you think the holdup will be, Jean?"

"About thirty minutes. After that point, from the number of planes we're seeing in the air, they'll have exhausted their resources. Their birds have to be refueled, unlike ours." He allowed himself a small smile.

Armquist's hand froze, as her eyebrows shot up. "Thirty minutes? You do realize that by that time, the Soviet divisions that are in retreat will make it to the Voronezh-Tver' Line, right?"

"Yes. But we're stretched to the limit. With number of enemies we're facing, it's a miracle we aren't doing more. Half an hour is the all I can give you, ma'am."

The tapping resumed. "Fine. Abort the operation, but tell your people to inflict as many casualties as they can, without damaging themselves too badly." d'Souza enthusiastically saluted in response, obviously approving of these orders.

As Armquist returned the salute, she thought to herself, _"I guess I'll just have to play the hand I'm dealt with._

"_Even though I know that losing this opportunity is going to put me in a whole world of pain."_


	20. Inaction

**MOSCOW HAS FALLEN**

_After a six month-long siege, the capital of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics has finally been liberated by the BnL Combined Security Forces. Crowds of citizens lined up to watch as BnL peacekeepers marched through the city, sweeping out and arresting any remaining pockets of Communist resistance._

_A free and fair election was held in all areas currently under BnL jurisdiction on October 8, and Grigori Nekrasov, leader of the Russian Liberation Front, was elected President of the reconstituted Russian Federation by a whopping margin of eighty-nine percent of the vote. Nekrasov entered Moscow today to formally assume office. His first acts were to dissolve the Supreme Soviet, and convene the Federal Assembly of Russia._

_In a speech to the Federal Assembly, President Nekrasov called for the remnants of the Soviet Union's army and government, still fortified behind both the Vladimir-Tambov and the Uralic Lines, to surrender and form a coalition government with him. He promised to give a general amnesty against all war crimes committed by enlisted men and non-commissioned officers serving in the Red Army._

_The Soviet Union declined to respond._

_- BnL World News Daily, 10/10/75_

_

* * *

_

Grigori felt so very tired.

He hated the parade that the BnL marketers was forcing him to do. They claimed it was to help build good-will, and a sense of a new beginning.

Nekrasov knew better. Sure, a few people were turning out to feebly cheer. Most didn't care, however. They walked from place to place, amidst the rubble of the fallen city, heads down close to the ground.

As he waved his hand, grinning idiotically, they would occasionally look up at him. Nekrasov was always struck by the expression of pure hopelessness in their faces. There were hints of accusation in their gazes, as though they were baffled as to why he would have ruined their previously carefree lives.

How he wished he could tell them. But it seemed that nowadays, even he wasn't sure why. There were many old arguments he used to make. Utility, expediency, the greater good. They seemed to ring hollow to his ears now. So instead, he waved.

When they went down Tverskaya Ulitsa, his bodyguards began to tighten around him, as this was one of the major areas where Soviet sympathizers were thought to still lurk.

Nekrasov also loathed his bodyguards. He wished to have his old assistant Pavel back, but it was not to be. Pavel had been killed in the siege of St. Petersburg, during the bombardment. In his place, he had several armored monstrosities.

Intellectually, he knew that they were men and women just like him. But they had no mind, no soul. Transferred from one of the BnL elite commando units, they never displayed any emotion in their mission to protect him.

He had long ago given up trying to make conversation with them, as they gave monosyllabic responses to anything he said.

Nekrasov was about to order them to stop pressing themselves so close, when it appeared their vigilance had been rewarded. A blurred shape shot out of an alleyway, and as one they fired their M-18 multilasers.

The figure collapsed. It was a starving dog, the ribs on its body painfully visible. The dull eyes of the poor animal stared up at him, seeming to express that same question so many humans had asked without speaking a single word.

_Why?_

_

* * *

_

The President of the Russian Federation checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty. Time to act.

He had been sitting in the Kremlin for weeks now, rotting. There was no point to his existing, it seemed. The Federal Assembly existed in name only, composed of collaborators whose only power was to rubber-stamp anything the occupiers gave them. There was nothing to sign, nothing to preside over, as all administrative duties were overseen by the military.

Nekrasov had once requested to be able to walk around Moscow. What he had intended to be a small outing turned into an armed procession, as his team of bodyguards marched alongside to make sure no assassins could get in a lucky shot.

After that, he resolved to try to go out on his own, without anyone finding out. If he didn't, he was certain he'd go mad.

At 11:30PM, the sentries outside his door changed. In this interval, he hoped to sneak out the window of his room, certain that there temporarily would be no one to hear him.

He heard the faint sound of thumping feet, indicating the soldier currently outside was heading downstairs. Waiting a heartbeat after the guard had left, Grigori flung open his bedroom window and climbed out.

It was lucky that he had a room on the second floor. After shimmying down a drain pipe, he dropped noiselessly onto the grass.

Nekrasov began walking. He wasn't sure where he wanted to go, except for away from the Senate building where he was housed.

Wandering aimlessly, he came across a small, shabby looking pawn shop, which had only barely escaped the extensive bombing Moscow had suffered. The front door was wide open.

Curious, he walked up, only to collide with someone who came running out of the store. An unshaven man, wearing a threadbare Red Army jacket bulging with jewelry. Nekrasov wondered if he were a deserter.

The scruffy individual stared at Nekrasov, not recognizing him. Then he shook himself and produced a gun. Grigori stood as still as he possibly could.

With an apologetic smile, the man said, "I'm sorry. I can't risk you telling the Yankees about what I've done." He shrugged. "I've already killed the owner of the shop. What would one more murder be?"

After shooting Nekrasov twice, in the gut, the robber ran off down an alleyway. The erstwhile president lay there, bleeding, on the ground. He felt around in his pocket. Grigori knew there was an emergency pager in there. If he activated it, people would come and save him.

He had the device in his hands, when he stopped himself. There was no point. If they gave him medical assistance, what would that mean, in the end? More weeks, or even years of an empty life.

Using the last ounce of his strength, he sat up and threw the pager down the filthy street the thief had run down. Then Grigori carefully lay back down. Finally, he could rest.

The next morning, when a street sweeper found his slowly stiffening body in front of the pawn shop, a massive commotion erupted in the halls of the local BnL garrison, as they struggled to find the Soviet agent who had murdered the President of the Russian Federation.


	21. Endgame

**Office of the Chief of the Combined Security Forces of BnL**

June 19, 2075

To General Zhuang Kwong, Commander in Chief of Army Group Delta –

You are to be commended for your rapid advance into the interior of Siberian Russia. However, you should temper the enjoyment of your success with a certain amount of caution.

While the forces making up Army Group Delta far outnumber anything the Soviets have left in the east, due to the Russian retreat to their last defensive lines, you are running the risk of spreading yourself too thin. I have noticed a slow rise in reports of Communist partisan activity in your district, which is possibly being directed by clandestine NKVD agents.

It would be wise to stop attempts to take more land that would be difficult to hold safely, and to consolidate your gains.

Respectfully,

General Sandra Armquist

* * *

…_the Strategic Defense Initiative was revived by the USA after the Iranian Missile Crisis caused widespread resurgence of the fear of global nuclear war._

_In a well-publicized partnership between the Union Aerospace Corporation and the United States government, a network of defensive satellites were launched in order to intercept ballistic missiles shortly after they had been launched, while ABM silos were built throughout NATO allies to shoot down any nuclear weapons that managed to get past the satellite cover. Tying together these two systems was a massively expanded radar network, designed to detect missile launches anywhere in the world._

_After the Consolidation began, BnL inherited the SDI project, and maintains it to this very day as a deterrent against would-be nuclear powers…_

_- BnLpedia_

_

* * *

_

Corporal Han was on guard duty. It was boring, cold work, but at least it was also reasonably safe. You could get sniped by Soviet fanatics if you went out on patrol. Rumor had it that recently the Communists had been getting so audacious, that several squads had completely _disappeared_ after they left the base.

So he didn't complain about standing around outside for hours on end in front of the front gate, where the only event that broke up the monotony was the occasional convoy.

It was amazing how many soldiers they lost in each convoy detail. No matter how many APCs they sent out with the trucks, a few men were always killed by roadside bombs. They did their best to sweep the streets for mines, but the transportation networks were so rudimentary that the partisans had an easy time of hiding the hateful things. Truly, this was the arse-end of Russia.

Han was rubbing his hands to try to keep warm, when another line of battered trucks rumbled up to the entrance. There were fewer of them than usual, which was odd. There was always more safety in numbers. He wouldn't have been very surprised if they had been ambushed several times.

He pulled out a clipboard and walked up to the side of the leading car, head hunched down against the chill. "Name?"

"Ming Xiong."

Han scribbled it down on the clipboard. "Goods carried?"

The driver looked at him blankly from behind the sunglasses he was wearing. "Ammunition."

He almost waved the truck on through, when something began niggling at him. The situation was wrong. Han asked, "Would you mind if I checked what was inside?"

"Are you sure you want to do that, sir?" The man reached into a pocket, and pulled out a wad of cash. "Perhaps this could clear up the situation…"

_Oh._ They were _smugglers._ He looked around to see if anyone would notice, and then pocketed the money. "Head right on in."

As the convoy went in the base, he started to count his new-found wealth. It was over a thousand BnL credits, very nice. So engrossed with the money, he almost didn't notice the explosion that rocked the interior of the military compound, killing hundreds of officers.

* * *

**Approval Ratings Hit New Low**

**Protests in France, Germany**

**Demands for Global CEO to Enter Negotiations with Soviets**

President Waternoose slammed the newspaper printouts down in front of General Armquist. "Look at this… trash, Sandra! Now, tell me again that it will take several _years_ to take out the last Communist strongholds."

"It's the truth, Mr. President. If I tried to say anything else, I'd be making stuff up." She shrugged.

"Sandra, only sixty percent of people think I'm doing a good job. That's the lowest my general approval rating has been for over a decade! My analysts say that I'm losing an average of a half percentage point a week. We can't keep this up!"

Armquist rubbed her forehead for a second. "Mr. President, each time we have managed to dislodge the Soviets from one of their defensive works in the west, they sacrifice hundreds of their planes and trained pilots to buy time for a fighting retreat. We have only been able to achieve the complete destruction of fourteen divisions, barely a drop in the bucket for the Soviet Union.

"The Chinese are not doing any better. When they march out in force, the Communist partisans melt into the countryside. If they try to divide their armies to perform counter-insurgency tactics, which they have NO training for, they get ambushed. And all the while, their convoys and bases get hammered by indiscriminate bombings.

"On top of all this, without Nekrasov to act as a halfway decent figurehead, partisans are beginning to sprout up in the _western_ sector now. You should be glad that we aren't _losing_, sir."

Frustrated, Waternoose opened his mouth to shout an angry retort. Instead, he clutched his chest in pain. His heart was acting up again, as it had started to since this utter debacle began. Hand shaking, he pulled out a medicine bottle, and dry-swallowed two pills.

Sandra had a concerned expression on her face. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I'm fine," he snapped. After waiting a minute, the dreadful vise in his chest released its grip. Breathing more easily, Waternoose said, "I think I have a plan to deal with both of our problems."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be, sir?"

With a little grunt, he opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a sheaf of paper. It was signed and dated at the bottom. "General Sandra Armquist. I am authorizing you to use tactical nuclear weapons, in order to dislodge the Soviet Army from their defensive positions. While our stockpile of neutron bombs nowhere near rivals those that were held by the former United States, it should be more than sufficient."

Armquist said, shocked, "Mr. President. If I use nuclear weapons first, I will be giving a free pass to the Soviets to respond likewise. And you _know_ that their supply is as large as it ever has been."

"So? That's what we have the SDI for."

"But, sir--"

He held up a hand. "No more 'buts,' Sandra. These are my orders. By using as many tactical nukes as you deem necessary, end this war. It's gone on for long enough."

* * *

In a way, General Armquist couldn't argue with results. The neutron shells would explode over the fortifications, instantly killing the people inside. After each section had been cleared, her soldiers would move in easily, not even having to worry about residual radiation. Neutron based weaponry was _very_ clean.

The only hard part was how many they had to use. Even after all this time, it was amazing how big the Soviet Army was. And they only had so many of the devices.

* * *

"Comrade President. Our field commanders have confirmed that the Yankees are using nuclear weaponry."

"This is not unexpected. They have grown desperate. Execute Operation _Jericho_."

* * *

**Warning, missile launches detected.**

A few white circles appeared in the distant north, indicating the launch sites. According to the observation satellites, the missiles were being fired from boomers based in the western Arctic Ocean. The Soviets were apparently hoping to get in some hits on BnL Europe. Not if she could help it.

Not showing how nervous she really was, Armquist calmly said to the computer, "Transfer all space-based SDI assets so as to protect Region 3, BnL Europe, from incoming missile fire."

**Confirmed.**

The SRH flickered, as more missiles began streaking up into space. An overlay of the satellites present came on, and she saw them begin shifting over to cover Europe. She watched with great satisfaction as one of the ICBMs burst harmlessly in space. It was now only a matter of waiting.

For the first twenty minutes, the people in the room cheered after each nuke was shot down. Then everyone began to lose interest, as it became routine.

Sandra frowned. This was too easy. All the stuff the Soviets were throwing at them were obscenely antiquated, she wouldn't have been surprised if they were Cold War vintage.

When she had mentioned her suspicions to one of her subordinates, he had guessed that maybe they didn't have the resources to have maintained anything better. But that was _stupid._ With all the blatantly obvious preparation they had done for the war, you'd think they'd have devoted some effort to building and overhauling their nuclear arsenal.

Her finger went unconsciously to her chin. _Tap, tap, tap_. Her eyes widened. Of course! It was all a feint. She began frantically looking over the world map on the holoscreen, trying to figure out what focusing the SDI systems on Europe would leave uncovered. Not the Americas, too many ABM silos. Not Africa, or the Middle East, as they would still be covered by the reassigned satellites.

It was Asia!

She shouted for the computer to transfer as many of the missile interception sats as possible, but it was already too late. The screen began to blaze white, as what seemed like millions of hellish points of light filled the western Pacific Ocean.

* * *

Frank Grimes knocked on the door to the Presidents' suite for the fourth time, and then decided he might as well go in. It was the middle of the night, so it'd make sense that the old man was asleep.

Everyone had thought that this sort of bad news was the kind you'd give in person, so he had volunteered to be the messenger.

To his surprise, Waternoose was already up, seated in his favorite chair. All Frank could see was a fringe of white hair poking up over the recliner. The holoscreen was on, turned to BnLNN.

"_The current death toll is estimated to be two point five seven five billion citizens, with a margin of error of …"_

Frank cringed. That was basically the worst way to find out what had happened. He loudly cleared his throat.

President Waternoose didn't respond.

Coughing yet again, he said, "Sir?" He began walking around the chair to come face to face with Waternoose.

The elderly man was slumped over, like a marionette with all its strings cut. Fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone with one hand, Frank used the other to feel for a pulse. There was one, but just barely.

After flipping open the phone, he dialed the emergency number, praying that the doctors would get there in time. If only the stubborn old sod had agreed to get an internal heart monitor installed, this would never have happened.

* * *

"You're on in thirty seconds, sir."

The smiling man nodded affably, and looked in the mirror for one last check. Tie straight, hair perfect, and above all, the smile. That air of complete honesty and good-natured will towards his fellow man had stood him in fine stead for years, and he privately credited it for being what got him the position of CEO of BnL North America.

And that's what the poor old fellow, Mr. Waternoose, had never understood. The ex-president had always been abysmal at speaking to the public. When things were going well, the general populace managed to overlook this foible. But as the situation went south, it didn't help that whenever he'd be on the holovee, Waternoose would generally look like he had no idea of what he was doing. Least photogenic person in existence, the smiling man could hardly tell the difference after Waternoose suffered the debilitating heart attack that rendered him a vegetable.

Now, what people wanted was someone who seemed to know what they were doing, and appeared to understand their problems. While he would never admit that he had anything in common with the average citizen of BnL, he had a lot of practice at acting as though he did.

"Ten seconds, sir."

He walked out of the dressing room, heading straight for the studio. A holovee recorder sat there, ready to send his message to millions of humans across the globe. In front of it was the Director of the BnL Department of Law, Johann Gerhardt.

The cameraman held up three fingers, folding each one as he counted down to the beginning of the transmission. A light labeled BROADCASTING flickered on.

Gerhardt said, "We have solemnly gathered on this day to affirm the new Global CEO of Buy n Large. Repeat these words after me…" He ran through the entire oath of office.

Without missing a beat, the smiling man repeated the words, hand on his chest.

"I, Shelby Forthright, do swear to uphold the Office of Global CEO of Buy n Large, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the rules and regulations as set down by the Board of Directors and honored BnL stockholders. So help me God."


	22. Gotterdammerung

…_When Shelby Forthright entered the office of Global CEO of BnL, confidence in the Presidency was at an all-time low. Most of the citizens were blaming Waternoose's policies towards the Soviet Union for the devastating missile strike on Asia, which nearly wiped out human life in China and India. The hard feelings were felt strongest in Europe and Australasia, whose respective citizens cynically felt that the entire war was a pretext to forcibly incorporate the USSR into Buy n Large._

_The day after his inauguration, President Forthright attempted to turn the situation around. In a daring break in tradition from his predecessor, he made a succession of talks that were directly beamed into the homes of every person who owned a holoscreen set._

_Using his trademark down-to-earth style, he painted a stark portrait of a battle of good versus evil, where the Security Forces where engaged in a titanic struggle against inhuman monsters who wanted nothing more than to destroy the BnL way of life. At one point he even directly addressed "the people who are loudly demanding that we surrender to the Soviets," and ridiculed the very notion that a lasting peace could be negotiated with the Communists. "For as long as their totalitarian regime exists," he said, "they will always be looking to shed the blood of our people. And by handing them our defeat on a silver platter, we will merely embolden their efforts. My fellow citizens, they hold a profound hatred of our freedoms that we can scarcely even comprehend."_

_While the reception in BnL Europe and BnL Australasia was muted, Forthright received widespread popular acclamation in the Americas, particularly his stronghold of BnL North America. Recruitment surged, and the Security Forces were able to expand dramatically._

_With a series of well-planned attacks using her new-found manpower, General Sandra Armquist was able__ to__ finally dislodge the Soviet Army from the __Vladimir-Tambov Line. The Reds, under the cover of the last remnants of their Air Force, retreated to the Uralic Line to make their last stand._

_The end in sight, Armquist began preparing for the final assault that would mark the end of the Consolidation War. It would not be an easy task, as the Uralic Line was the crown of the _Bol'soj Strojka_. More than mere trenchworks, it was actually composed of what were estimated to be 15 underground fortress-cities. While their soldiers performed holding action after holding action, the Soviet Union had been frenetically moving millions of its populace, to work in an endless warren of protected factories and laboratories._

_A large amount of speculation has been devoted to why this was done, with what had to be certain knowledge of their imminent defeat. The only conclusion that many scholars could come to is that the Soviets had hoped to hold out in the Uralic Line for months, or possibly years. This would, oddly enough, be similar to a German proposal made to Adolf Hitler near the end of World War II, where top military officers tried to convince him to move what was left of the Nazi government to an Alpine Redoubt in southern Bavaria._

_The actual truth will never be known, as both the plans and participants have been lost to the ravages of time…_

_- Blood and Iron: A History of the Consolidation War ©2813 Jackson Publishing Enterprises_

_

* * *

_

…_the Americans were wrong. And due to how closely they clung to their convictions, that is why their effort had stalled even before we had intervened. The, albeit correct, belief that the necessary refinements to their power generation technology wouldn't appear for twenty years or more, meant they essentially put the project on life support._

_But, as I said, Adams was wrong. After experiments with the equipment that you have so gracefully provided, I have succeeded in further refining his calculations. Amusingly, my colleagues have already started to call it the Adams-Zakharov Equation. _

_It states as such: Transmission time is directly proportional to power, and _the size of the array.

_Ah, you do not appreciate this, my president. Let me explain._

_Say you had a two centimeter steel plate you wanted to punch a hole through. You first try to use a small nail to make the hole. Due to the nail's size, and comparative tensile strength of the plate, you would have to apply an excessive amount of force and time to achieve success._

_Now replace the nail with an iron railroad spike. Do you see what I mean?_

_What I suggest is that instead of trying to build a device that would fit in a warehouse, aim for something larger. Five kilometers square should do the trick. We can simply put the amplifying devices around the perimeter, and focus them on the quantum tunneler at the center._

_This does not completely eliminate the electricity factor, but it does reduce the power requirements slightly. A mere one thousand gigawatts, give or take several hundreds of megawatts. Well within the reach of, say, four nuclear power plants._

_The one problem with our model would be the same size that gives it its advantage in energy efficiency. Unlike the BnL design, we cannot take it with us through the transmission. It would be completely stationary._

_As such, we should make plans to ensure that the Americans are rendered unable to use it, permanently._

_- Professor Afanasi Zakharov, Dean of the MSU Faculty of Mechanics and Mathematics_

_

* * *

_

The forges lay silent, for the first time in months. Designed to turn out thousands of tons of pure steel, they lay abandoned, groaning as they cooled.

This sight was repeated in all of the factories of Complex One. The workers were all filing out, getting ready for the evacuation. Some idly wondered where they could be evacuating to, as the entirety of Russia was occupied by the Fascist invaders, but they didn't dare try asking the blank-faced NKVD soldiers escorting them. It was probably classified, and it was unwise for the government to notice you asking about classified material. They might think you were a BnL informer.

So the workmen and their families shuffled along, carrying what few meager possessions they were allowed to keep. The government had imposed strict weight limits, for some reason. Once again, they didn't inquire too heavily about this.

The ground would shake occasionally, as the fascists continued to try to penetrate into the Complex with their unholy weapons. It was only a matter of time before they got through, despite the hundreds of soldiers sacrificing themselves to buy time.

The group of evacuees was passing by Passage Thirty-Seven when a figure came running out of it. It was carrying something in its hands, but when the civilians saw the Commissarial badge of authority, they quickly averted their eyes.

Without even acknowledging the salutes given by the escorting soldiers, the commissar continued down the path.

It retraced a long, winding path through the maze of passages. First came the less-restricted manufacturing areas, a place of endless machinery, all still.

Then were the classified laboratories. Here all the scientific equipment that was deemed useful had been removed, leaving the endless halls eerily empty.

The objective of the figure lay in the heart of the complex, the administrative offices. It passed by a seemingly endless number of sealed entryways, the occupants already long gone. Finally, at what must have been the very center of Complex One, the person came across an ominous-seeming reinforced door. There was an electronic keypad next to it.

After a few button presses, the door slid open with a hiss. Inside was the Chairman of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, leader of the World Socialist Revolution. Comrade President Alexei Ilyin.

He was facing an array of television monitors, all securely linked to closed-circuit cameras throughout the Uralic Line. Many showed nothing but static, but a few were still relaying images of the USSR's losing fight for survival.

Without turning, the President said, "Comrade Mironova, you are late."

The recently promoted head of the NKVD blushed. "I am sorry, sir. There were delays, as many tunnels have collapsed as a result of the capitalists' artillery."

"It is fine, Mironova. That was caused through no fault of your own." His eyes flicked to the box. "Are those…?"

"_Da_." She handed it to him, and he flipped the container open. Inside were two gleaming keys.

As Ilyin took one of them out, and handed the other to Mironova, he noticed a diffident expression on her face. "I see you are confused by the use of such an archaic device, Commissar."

Eyes widening slightly, she admitted, "Well, yes, sir. I was wondering why you didn't use a code of some sort…"

"Because I would not trust it. You know how good the Americans are at 'hacking.' With an electro-mechanical system, I can be certain that there would be no unfortunate accidents."

He walked over to a long console that lay beneath the monitors, Mironova following close behind. On opposite ends of it were two keyholes, spaced far enough apart that no single person could turn both at the same time.

They each took position in front of a respective keyhole. Ilyin inhaled deeply."Ready, comrade?"

She nodded.

After counting to three, they turned the keys. There was a whirring noise, followed by a click. As Alexei let out the breath he had been holding, Mironova said, "It is done. Let us go, Comrade President."

"No."

"Sir?"

The president glanced up at the monitors again. Only two were still active, showing entire squads of soldiers frantically firing at unseen enemies. As he watched, many of them fell, dying. Reinforcements would come to replace them, but he could see their numbers thinning.

"I cannot leave my homeland."

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "You don't have to play the part of the sinking ship's captain. There's still _Hope,_ sir. We have ten minutes, plenty of time to leave."

"That is not why I must stay." Pause. "The reason we are forced to do this is because I failed, Mironova. We all did."

"You are saying a bunch of _govno_. You were the one who said it would be better to die, than to live as slaves under the fascists!"

"True. But just because I am making what is the best choice, does not turn it into a good one." Drawing himself up to his full height, he said, "If I am to execute my people because of my own failings, then I deserve it just as much as they do."

"Fine." With a mulish look on her face, Mironova said, "Then I will stay with you also, Comrade President."

"_No,_ Commissar. You will not." Rolling over shouted attempts by the woman to interrupt him, he continued. "You are needed to govern the refugees."

She stopped yelling, bewildered.

Ilyin smiled. "Do not think that I have not noticed how you have acquitted yourself in these last, dark days of the Soviet Union. You have shown remarkable skill after receiving your battlefield promotion last fall.

"In the times to come, our people will need such a leader, someone who can keep them on the true path. You."

"Are you certain, sir?" She was biting her lip.

"_Da._ I am ordering you to leave. That is final, Commissar Mironova."

With a salute, and an aura of steely determination, she left. The door slammed shut behind her.

After waiting a while to see if she had truly left, Ilyin went over and activated keypad's emergency lockdown code, ensuring that no one could come in. He then pulled out the chair from behind his desk, and sat down heavily on it.

Ilyin had a beautiful pocketwatch he had inherited from his great-grandfather. He took it out, and checked to make sure it was tightly wound. Placing it on his desk, in plain view, he settled down to wait for the end.

* * *

Gera was waiting in a queue for her bread, as was her routine every morning. While it galled her to accept charity from the occupiers, the food that they handed out was all many had to survive on. With the small amount of money she had carefully hoarded, she managed to buy other essentials to round out the bread from the black market.

However, even that money was running out. She knew that sooner or later, she'd have to follow the lead of numerous other women in Kazan. Selling her body to the invaders.

Her ruminations were disturbed by the sound of merry laughter. She looked through a window, out of the dismal warehouse. There were children playing outside. Her heart twisted. Little Nadia had died only a month ago, during the siege. It had been so hard to keep going after that...

Then Gera furrowed her eyebrows in perplexion. They were playing in some piles of snow, which was falling in great, grey drifts.

Bizarre. It was far too late into spring for that sort of weather. She shrugged. Just what the already suffering people of Russia needed.

A long winter.

* * *

Mr. President,

A report regarding the recent turn of events by one Dr. Malcolm Betruger is enclosed. Since I know that you are pressed for time, however, I will also provide a short summary.

According to spectroscopic analysis, the nuclear device the Soviets used was of a type called a 'cobalt bomb.' A weapon first suggested by the twentieth century physicist Leó Szilárd, it is essentially a nuke that has been jacketed with the element cobalt.

Upon detonation, the metal is transmuted into cobalt-60, which is _intensely_ radioactive and has a half-life of 5.27 years to boot. We can safely expect that anything caught in the cloud of ash emanating from the Urals will be dead in no time at all.

What's even worse is the fact that due to the prevailing wind patterns, this cobalt contaminated dust will move west for hundreds of miles, before settling over Europe. Not only will we be forced to conduct widespread evacuations, millions of acres of biomass will also be killed off.

Dr. Betruger feels that with the amount of stress already having been put on the environment by the loss of Asia, this will take our planet near the breaking point. He has recommended the extensive utilization of food & water rationing, power restrictions, and recycling programs. This will be in effect until sufficient amounts of plant life has recovered, which is estimated to be about three decades.

While this move will be unpopular, we can't really afford the risk. With the amount of damage that humanity has now done, it appears that we'll have to act as the Earth's custodians for the next thirty years before the situation settles down.

Respectfully,

Frank Grimes


	23. Epilogue

_Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear,_

_Just for a while, dear, we must part._

_Don't let the parting upset you,_

_I'll not forget you, sweetheart._

_We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,_

_But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day._

_Keep smiling through, just like you always do,_

_'Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away._

_So will you please say hello to the folks that I know,_

_Tell them I won't be long._

_They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go,_

_I was singing this song._

_We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,_

_But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day!_

_- Vera Lynn, _We'll Meet Again

* * *

Far off, in the depths of space, a flash of light appeared.

A shimmering portal expanded, like a door into another dimension. Inside it can be seen a gigantic room, that resembled a massive hangar. A loud roar of escaping air whistled through the gateway.

On a massive gantry lies a construction of steel, expressly designed to survive in the depths of space. Motors on the scaffold slowly pushed the object out into the vacuum. After leaving the bounds of gravity, it began floating effortlessly.

Rockets at one end began flaring, and what was evidently a starship began to ponderously fly off. The portal winked out, its mission done.

On the starship, a hammer and sickle is emblazoned. Alongside was a single word: _Nadezda._

**Hope.**


End file.
